


Cashing in My Bad Luck: Before

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bondage, Character’s from other fandoms may be OOC, Dom Phil Coulson, Dominance, Forced Submission, Frottage, Grant Ward is a better friend than lover, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, It’s Cliffhangers All the Way Down, Jasper Sitwell has a filthy mouth, Kissing, Lingerie, M/M, Masochism, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Office Foreplay, Phil has issues, Pining, Sadism, Sub Clint Barton, Submission, Teasing, Wade Wilson is a disaster bi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Phil’s POV of Let the Waves Up and Take Me Down.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Phil Coulson/Grant Ward
Series: I Will Wait for You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 52
Kudos: 175





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well I came home  
> Like a stone  
> And I fell heavy into your arms  
> These days of dust  
> Which we've known  
> Will blow away with this new sun
> 
> — Mumford and Sons: I will wait for you
> 
> Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck  
> Some nights, I call it a draw  
> Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle  
> Some nights, I wish they'd just fall off
> 
> — Fun.: Some Nights
> 
> Please let me know if you see any typos or if there is something to be tagged for that I missed.
> 
> See the Appendices for the Chronological reading order.
> 
> ETA: Please note the Cliffhanger tag. It will be resolved in Let the Waves Up Take Me Down: Now, which is set to start posting in May.

Phil’s Voice breaks when he’s 13, and nothing will ever be the same. 

It happens in between Algebra and American History; Laura’s hanging off his locker and teasing him about his crush on Danny Figueroa and he’s had enough and he Shouts, “ _JUST SHUT UP!_ ”

You could hear a pin drop as his Voice echoes through the entire hallway. Everyone stops what they’re doing and stares at him. 

Phil looks around wild eyed. He slams his locker door shut, which sounds like a gunshot in the silence, and runs. 

He hides in a bathroom stall until the bell rings and then sneaks out of the school, grateful that everyone’s gone to class. He ditches History and Spanish, riding his bike home, crying. 

Mom’s in her study, working on some big case and he makes it to his room without her hearing. She’s got her dark hair up in a severe bun and her eyes, the same shade of hazel blue as his, are lost in fierce concentration; sunlight streams in from the window lighting up her pale skin and creating a glow around her; she looks like an avenging angel and he can’t face her right now. 

Unfortunately the school calls not long after; he can only make out parts of the conversation through the pillow he’s thrown over his head to block the world out. 

“He what?!” She asks, followed by, “Now… minute! You can’t… ppens all the ti… Unreasonable… what’s best… be right dow… _What do you mean_ you don’t know where he is!”

Crap. If Mom’s using her Voice then this is going to be super bad. He can’t keep hiding in his room; whatever he’s got coming will be that much worse if he refuses to face it. He comes out and stops at the study door, waiting for her to notice him.

“If anything happens to my— Phillip! He’s here. I’m going to hang up now and talk with my son, but don’t think this conversation is over.”

She hangs up with a decisive click. 

“Mom?” He asks, lip trembling.

“Oh, Cheese, come here,” she holds open her arms and he runs to her, she hugs him like nothing’s changed and he’s grateful she isn’t like other doms he’s heard of who seem to think there’s a cut off age for hugging their dominant kids, “It will be okay. I promise.”

~~~

It’s anything but okay. 

He’s suspended for a week, though they don’t call it that, they call it an ‘adaptation leave of absence’.

Mom had had ‘The Talk’ with him in fourth grade, but decides now is a good time for a refresher, because this whole thing isn’t mortifying enough already. She spends hours going over the ethics of when, where, and why he should use his Voice, like they hadn’t all heard her go through it with Laura last year. 

Going back to school is a nightmare, his friends are nervous around him and kids that never gave him the time of day before now all want to hang out with him. He gets through it, but he learns some hard lessons about trust, motivations, and how to read people. 

He’s only had his Voice a couple weeks when they’re at the dinner table and Mom brings up the idea of a Speech therapist. 

“I thought that was just for Mutes?” Shelly asks. She’s only eight and had been obsessed with all things Voice since Laura got hers last year. She’s ten times worse since Phil got his. 

“No, baby,” Dad says, “They work with everyone. Your brother’s going to need a lot of control and your mom and I just think it would be best—”

Phil can’t take any more, “No! I’m not doing it. _And you can’t make me._ ”

There’s a gasp as everyone feels his Voice roll over them and he bellows in frustration, “Arrgh!”

He knows this proves his parents’ point, but he can’t take it right now and he pushes away from the table, rattling the dishes.

“ _Phillip Jay Coulson, you sit back down_!” Mom Orders; it’s been weeks since she’s used her Voice on him, and it’s had noticeably less effective on him since he started going through puberty. Even with her Naming him he barely feels it.

“ _No. You can’t Tell me what to do anymore. Just LEAVE ME ALONE!_ ”

He storms off to his room and it’s a good five minutes before Mom is able to follow. 

She knocks on the door saying, “Cheese?”

“Go away.”

“Please, Phillip, I just want to talk?”

He wars with himself but finally admits she only wants to help, and he _needs_ help, “Fine. Come in.”

She does so and takes the chair by his desk, sitting across from him where he’s laying on the bed with his arms folded, staring at his vintage war bond posters and trying not to cry like a little kid. 

“I love you, Cheese. You know that, right?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, “Yeah, Mom, I know.”

“And I only want what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m not going to lie; some people— probably a lot of people— are going to expect you to be a certain kind of dom because of your Voice; but it’s not up to them. You get to decide who you are. You’ll show the world the type of dominant you are through your actions; not with your Voice but with how you use it.

“As dominants we have a lot of expectations to live up to. Having a strong Voice is a gift, but it’s also a responsibility.”

“It's a sucky gift. Everyone at school treats me like some kind of freak. Even some of the teachers are scared of me.”

“Well, that’s on them. You can’t Control their feelings or reactions. The only reactions you can control are your own. That’s the Control that really matters: self control.” 

“Uuuugh, but...”

“But what?”

“But what if I can’t Control it.”

“You have a good heart, Phil, and you always see the best in people. You just need to see it in yourself.”

She lets him think about it for a minute before standing up and dusting off her hands. 

“Now. I think you owe your father and sisters an apology, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And for that little stunt you’ll do the dishes by yourself tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“By hand.”

“Mooo-ooo-ooom,” he whines, stretching it out into three syllables as he sits up and stares at her with a horrified expression. 

“It will give you time to think. Wouldn’t you say you need it?” 

He sighs; she’s not wrong, “Yes, ma’am.”

~~~

Phil’s elbow deep in suds when Dad comes up next to him, rolls up his sleeves, and grabs a towel and a damp dish from the drying rack. 

He’s slipped off his forest green corset vest, the one that he keeps swearing he’s going to throw out, claiming it’s more suited to a younger sub; but Phil knows Mom loves the way it sets off Dad’s golden brown eyes and that Dad will never get rid of it. 

Dad’s untucked his khaki button down shirt, the one just a shade darker than his skin, from his matching slacks and his bare feet are silent on the linoleum. Without his shoes he’s shorter than Phil, something else new Phil is having to get used to. 

The kitchen lights make a halo out of Dad’s light brown hair, disheveled from Mom running her fingers through it while they had watched TV, dad kneeling at her side grading papers. 

“Mom said I’m supposed to—”

“I know what your mother said,” he says, “And I’m not about to let her tell me what I can or can’t do in my own kitchen.”

“Won’t she get angry?”

“What’s she going to do, spank me?” He asks with a mischievous smile.

“Ugh, Dad. Gross.”

“Don’t ‘Ugh, Dad,’ me. Your mother and I have a rich and wonderful sex life, and—”

“Oh my God, Dad! Please stop!”

“You could Order me to stop.”

“I wouldn’t, I’m not, I—” Phil sputters until his Dad takes pity on him.

“I know you wouldn’t, Cheese. Not if you were thinking clearly. That’s the thing. With a gift like yours—”

“Argh! Why does everybody keep calling it that?”

“Because it’s true. Someday you’ll really need it, and it will be there for you.”

“But what if I… What if I hurt someone?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You know how much I love your mother?”

“Yeah.”

“And you know that I would never want to hurt her?”

“Well, yeah. But you’re a s—”

“Phillip Jay Coulson, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Do you think because I’m a sub, I’m weaker, or less capable than your mother? Than your sisters? That I need protecting, or that I’m fragile?

“Of course not, Dad! But—”

“‘But’ my fat ass. I don’t want you buying into that dynamic essentialist bullshit.”

“Dad!”

“Yes, bullshit. I said it and meant it. And it goes double for you. You’re going to find that a lot of doms are going to see you as a challenge or a threat. And just because you’ll be able to Order other doms, does that mean you should treat them any differently than if you couldn’t Order them?”

“Well, no.”

“So, why would that be any different from how you would treat a sub?”

“I… I don’t know. Aren’t subs different?”

“The only real difference between doms and subs is that due to a quirk of biology subs have to be more aware of who we’re speaking with, what they might say, how they might say it. Sound familiar?”

Phil nods slowly, “Yes, sir.”

“And this quirk, does it mean that we’re any less capable than anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

“Which means we don’t need a big strong dom to protect us, right?”

“I guess not, sir.”

“You guess…” Dad sighs, “Look at it this way, do you think I need your mother’s protection?”

“No, sir.”

“So, do you think other submissives need a dominant’s protection?”

“I.. No. No, sir, not when you put it that way.”

“Just,” Dad dries his hands and brushes his hand through Phil’s hair like he used to do when Phil was little, “Just don’t look at people as doms or subs— or switches for that matter, but that’s a discussion for another time. Someone’s dynamic isn’t who they are. Treat them, and yourself, as a person first and the rest will come naturally.”

Phil’s quiet for a bit and then says, “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. You're a good kid. And you’re going to be a great dom,” he folds the towel in half and sets it on the counter, “Now finish up. I’m going to go see about getting that spanking.”

“Eeeeeeeuuuuwwww, Daaaaa-aaaaad!” Phil calls out as his father bustles out of the kitchen; but once Dad’s back is turned Phil smiles a little. 

He hopes that someday he can have what his parents have. 


	2. Chapter 2

“What the hell is this?”

“It looks like a promotion to me.”

“It looks like bullshit to me. You’re tasking me over to Consignments. How the fuck is that a promotion?”

“I don’t recall putting anything in that memo about pulling you from Assignments.”

“You— What?”

“What? Did you think I was going to take my best agent out of the role he was born for and make him a glorified babysitter?”

“When you put it that way...”

“Aww, did I rain on your pity parade, Agent Coulson?”

“Well, yeah, a little. We didn’t even get to the high school marching band. And they practiced so hard.”

“How rude of me. Did you want me to let you stomp around and whine a little longer? Or can I get back to the little matter of saving the world?”

“And they say I’m the drama queen,” Phil says with an over the top eye roll as he leaves Fury’s office. 

It actually is a promotion. He now has a broader mandate on authorizing missions and, since he’ll have a higher overview of SHIELD resources, he’ll be able to utilize both in house and freelance operatives more effectively. 

And, a bonus from Fury’s perspective, Phil will have to spend even more time at the Trisk and less time out in the field, meaning he’ll be close at hand for any special project Fury might cook up; because at some point Phil had the poor judgement to become indispensable to the Director. 

So now Phil will only go out on the highest level missions, the ones that absolutely need his personal touch, and the rest he’ll have to delegate. 

Delegating is not his strong suit. 

~~~

“Jesus fucking shit balls.”

“Eloquent as always, Jazz; but yeah this one’s… special,” Phil separates out one of the windows on the big screen, a holographic projection that fills his office, for Jasper to review while Phil continues to requisition travel and gear, plan out operational logistics, and ensure all active Assignments and Consignments have their orders for while he’s out on the mission, “This has to be done right the first time. A spotter and a shooter, in and out, maximum impact, minimum ripple.”

“You’re not Mavricking this one like you usually do?”

“I’m good, but I’ve been spending too much time behind a desk. That’s on me and it’s something I’m going to rectify going forward. If I had a couple of days to polish off the rust, it would be a different story.”

“You’re not using our people for this, are you? We’ll need as much clearance as we can get.”

“Just me. Besides you, Fury is the only other person in the know. We’re going Outside for this one.”

“Who the fuck would be willing to take the risk? Not to mention able? Punisher? He was a sniper, right?”

“Not a chance. You know how ‘to the dom with a hammer, every problem’s a nail’? Castle’s hammer is an SMG.”

“Hm. Deadpool? You’d have to keep him on a tight leash, but I hear he likes—”

“I will pay you five hundred dollars right now to never say that name again.”

“Oh, come on, Wilson’s not that bad.”

“That’s the easiest five hundred you’ve ever lost.”

“I said ‘Wilson’ not ‘Deadpool’. Fuck. I say go for it; you two make an adorable couple.”

“You know when I say ‘I love you’ that’s not a challenge, right?”

“What’s wrong with Wilson. He certainly is… effective.”

“If Frank’s a loose cannon, Wade’s a nuke. I want to leave at least some of the city standing. Not to mention the mouth on him. I swear to God one of these days I’m going to snap and gag him, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

“That’s one of the things I like about him,” Jasper says with a smirk, “Anyone that can make ‘Mr. Roboto’ blow a fuse gets a gold star in my book.”

“Beep-boop-fuck-you,” Phil says in perfect monotone.

“What about the guys from that Toronto job? Smith and Wesson?”

“The Winchesters are great trackers, but that kill shot wasn’t them. Turns out we weren’t the only ones after Aubert.”

“So, who...?”

“I’m pulling the Scalpel from R & D—”

“Wait, that’s ready?”

“I had them rush it. This calls for precision. Finesse. I need a surgeon—”

“Oh God fuck a nun. Of course you want Hawkeye for this. It’s the excuse you’ve been looking for. Won't he want to use his little bow and arrow?”

“Laugh it up, asshole; you know I’m right. He’s perfect.”

Jasper raises a knowing eyebrow.

“For this. He’s perfect for this.”

“What I know is that you’ve had a hard on for him since that thing in Taqali.”

“That was a work of art, and you know it.”

“Hey I get it, even I chubbed up for that one, and you know I prefer other doms. And you have been eyeing him for Recruitment; are you sure he’s ready for the Big Reveal?”

“That’s not really first date material. Can you put together the dossier while I make contact? I’ve got to be on a plane to Odessa in an hour.”

“It will be on board before you are.”

“Thanks, Jasper.”

“Oh, and Phil, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, like seriously. That’s a short and very fucked up list. I’m pretty sure it’s just a couple of war crimes.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you, too, Phil. Stays safe.”

As he heads down the hall Jasper shouts, “By which I mean try not to get shot and wear a condom!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! I got distracted by the BDSM-AU Sub!Phil Dom/Prostitute!Clint plot bunny that popped into my head yesterday and forgot to post this chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> TW: Clint briefly gets physically sick to his stomach.

_‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God.’_

Clint Barton is even better looking in person. 

Tall, not just for a sub, broad shoulders, with a windswept tangle of golden blond hair over a honey tanned face that would make Helen of Troy weep with jealousy, even half obscured as it is by the oversized scarf and coat he’s wearing.

Not that anything about him marks Barton as a sub. Phil’s made a career out of his ability to read people, and if he didn’t know better he would have sworn Barton was a dom; or at the very least a dom leaning switch. 

Barton’s scarf is a shade of blue that brings out his eyes, and Phil feels a heady rush, feeling the need to Dominate like he hasn’t in years. Phil isn’t sure he’s kept the hunger out of his gaze when he meets Barton’s eyes and he has to wet his throat with a slow swallow of scotch. He could have gone with well whisky, but A) He’s not a barbarian, and B) When he noticed the 18 year Laphroaig he couldn’t resist. Phil tends not to indulge himself but when something of quality crosses his path he’s not one to question serendipity. 

_‘Cool it, Phil, that’s a prop. Save some for the exchange.’_

Barton works the room like the pro that he is; his approach to the corner booth where Phil’s set up seems completely natural. He’s just someone buffeted around by the crowd until he happens to end up across from Phil.

Phil makes eye contact again, this time deliberately, and runs the first two fingers of his leather encased right hand around the edge of his glass as he asks, “Looking for someone... special?”

“I think he’s running late,” Barton says, casually tapping his watch three times.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Phil replies picking up his glass left handed, the scotch looking like liquid gold in the light, taking a sip and then setting the glass back down, “Traffic is a bear tonight.”

Barton pulls off his scarf and folds it in half twice, asking, “Care to keep me company while I wait?”

Phil tells himself it’s all part of the exchange, the traded code phrases just there to let Barton confirm Phil’s identity. He’s going to kill Jasper for coming up with them. They’re innocuous enough to avoid suspicion while sounding outrageously flirtatious coming out of Barton’s perfect Cupid’s bow mouth. 

_‘Get it together,_ ’ he warns himself, gesturing with an open palm for Barton to sit, “Hawkeye.”

“Restraint,” Barton returns with a slight nod and a playful smile. 

‘ _Fucking hell,_ ” Phil can’t remember the last time he felt this drawn to someone. He mentally boxes up his inner monster, the one that wants to Claim Barton here on the table.

Phil’s set it up so they both have good sight lines. He would have anyway, but it’s doubly important now; the Malina have a net spreading across Odessa looking for him, thanks to a careless junior agent (and there will definitely be some tough love at that debrief) they know Phil’s in the city, if not why.

He’s run afoul of them enough times that they want him on his own merit, so he’s going to do his best to keep this meeting brief. Not to mention they’re on a clock. 

He signals to the waitress to bring the bottled beer he asked her to have on hand, something that Barton could trust not to be tampered with; well as much as anyone in their line of work can trust anything. So sue him if he chose Barton’s favorite beer. Phil has learned when to fight his Dominant urges and when to let a little pressure off himself with small, unremarkable, gestures. 

He slips the waitress sufficient cash to ensure they'll be left alone and tells Barton, “I asked her to give us some privacy.”

Barton’s smooth, checking the weapon at the small of his back as he unbuttons his coat, glancing at the door and windows of the club and to the hallway that leads to the kitchen, bathrooms, and back room. 

Phil has a flash of what it would be like if they were what they appeared to be: Phil, natural tan gone pale from too many nights at the office, wearing a well cut black suit, tie, and vest, starched white shirt, and long black leather coat with matching gloves; Barton, an Adonis of a man in a cheap down jacket that may have been black once but now is more of a muddled grey and is missing a couple buttons, worn blue jeans that fit like a second skin, and purple Chuck Taylor’s that are three seconds from falling apart. 

Phil knows he looks like a Sugar Daddy, and for a moment he plays out the fantasy, one where his morals slip away, one where he completely Dominates his sub, Ordering Barton to follow him to the playroom where Phil stops them to watch a public scene, getting a baseline for what his sub may want. Phil would take things slowly, tormenting Barton by drawing out the foreplay, Whispering all the things Phil wants to do to him. 

Phil holds back the laugh that tries to form at the ridiculousness of it; it’s like something out of one of his mother’s corset rippers.

“It’s your dime,” Barton says with a grin that should be illegal, “I’m yours for the length of this beer.”

 _‘Mine_.’ Jesus Fucking Christ. 

He should have gone with Wilson. Not once has he ever been tempted to bend the merc over the nearest flat surface, no matter how many times he’s offered. 

“Thank you for meeting with me. I know these are unusual circumstances and I appreciate your flexibility.”

“Oh, I’m _very_ flexible,” Barton flirts, and Phil wonders if he’s merely keeping up his cover, or if there’s something more to it. Either way it draws Phil in and he has to tamp down on the impulse to respond in kind. 

_‘Get it together, Phil. Focus. You’re a fucking professional; act like it.’_

Phil pulls out the dossier, it’s bare bones but still more than enough to turn his stomach, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important discretion is in this matter. This doesn’t leave my sight.”

Barton raises an eyebrow, “Is this your way of telling me you like to watch?”

Of course Barton’s not going to make this easy on Phil. What fun would that be?

“As mentioned, this is a time sensitive matter. Look it over. I need your answer now, I’m afraid.”

Barton frowns a little and takes the folder. Halfway through he thumbs the cap off the beer bottle, absently bouncing it off the candle in the middle of the table and then Phil’s glass so that it lands squarely between them, and takes a long drink. 

It’s impressive not only for the skill involved but by how effortless it looks. Phil tries not to think about other things those hands could do. They’re long fingered and calloused, strong, rough hands, and— _‘Stop_.’ 

Barton drains the beer as quickly as he reads and when he looks up Phil silently slides his nearly full glass of scotch over to him. Barton downs it in one swallow, which is a sin on multiple levels, before returning his gaze to the litany of horrors, “If this gets out—”

“The fallout will be unprecedented.”

“How did he get so highly placed? How could something like this happen for so long?”

“That’s my job to worry about. I need to know if you can do this and if you can do it now,” not that Phil has any doubt. Neither of them would be here he weren’t sure of the way it would play out, “He’s only going to be in country for a few more hours. After that? Who knows when we’ll have as clean of a shot.”

“Won’t be easy.”

“If it were easy, I wouldn’t need you. You’ve never struck me as the easy type,” Phil says, with far more burr in his voice than he intends.

“I’m not. Guess it’s not in my nature.”

“I need an answer, Hawkeye,” he says, focusing on the mission and not the way Barton plays havoc with his vaunted control. 

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you. My resources are at your disposal.”

“To start with—,” Barton’s interrupted by the sound of an SMG firing from the hallway. The crowd erupts in panic. Barton leaps from the booth, gun drawn, looking for the shooter. 

Phil lights the file with the candle and then follows; at the same time the shooter comes out of the hallway, spraying bullets into the ceiling. 

“ _Everybody_ _DOWN_ _,”_ it’s beyond instinctual; he’s spent nearly his entire life honing his Voice, training himself on precisely when and how to use it not only ethically, but effectively, and now is the time to drop all of his psychological safeties if ever there was one. 

As far as Phil and modern science know, he has one of the strongest Voices on the planet. He’s lost count of the number of research projects he’s been in, spending time, blood, and far too much sanity under the microscope. He doesn’t begrudge the scientific community for their interest, as long as they meet his conditions, the foremost being his anonymity. 

This is one of the few scenarios he feels free to use his full Range. He modulates it to be Wide and Shallow; it won’t hold more than a couple minutes, maybe as many as five, but it will travel, affecting everyone within hearing distance, doms, subs, and anyone in between. 

It’s been too long since he’s Stretched his Voice and he can feel the potency of it sweep through him like a star being born, incandescent and powerful. 

And addictive. 

He throttles back his appetite, reigning in his ego and forcing it back in its box with his considerable will. 

When he gets to her, the Malina thug’s eyes burn with hate. He cuffs her to the bar and says low Ukrainian, where only she can hear but at full strength, going for complete Control for as long as possible, « _You_ _will stay put_ _until the police take you into custody, and you won’t give them any trouble. Now,_ _tell me_ _who sent you_ _.»_

«Soroka,» she spits out, unable to resist, and then follows it up with, «He’s gonna cut out your devil’s tongue, _mazhor_.»

Charming. 

«Any time he wants to meet, I’m more than happy to Talk,» he smiles, the one very few people live to see twice and she pales. 

Using the barest touch of his Voice he Orders the bartender to call local law enforcement and keep everyone away from the gunman. 

Phil gets back to the table and is pleased to see that the file is in ashes. He crouches down next to Barton, “Can you stand?”

“Hmmm, yes Sir,” there’s a dreamlike quality to his voice, and he doesn’t move. He sounds like he’s been fuc— _‘Stop it, asshole. Get him up_ ,’ Phil tells himself. 

“Stand up, Hawkeye,” he tries; he doesn’t want to use his Voice on Clint again unless he absolutely has to; Phil knows Clint’s file better than he knows his own, and Barton’s going to be pissed enough as it is. 

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says and it goes straight to Phil’s head, he wants to put his sub Down, all the way Down and keep him there. It would be easy as breathing. Easier. There’s no one he can’t Bend to his will. He can—

He can keep his head in the game and help Barton get out of here. 

Clint sits up on his knees at Phil’s feet, _‘Where he bel— Don’t even think it,_ ’ then wraps his free hand around Phil’s calf, pressing the side of his face into Phil’s thigh. 

“Okay, Hawkeye, I can see you’re trying and that’s good, but I really need you to stand up now. She was here for us. Well, me. And there will be more coming.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says, clinging to Phil’s leg, “Wanna make you happy, Sir.”

Fuck, that is not helping Phil with his Power trip. They’re running out of time and he's just going to have to do it and deal with the fallout, “Damn it. I’m truly sorry for this, Barton, but I need you to _stand up and come with me._ ”

Clint practically climbs him like a tree, his hands are all over Phil and Phil has to close his eyes and clench his teeth to keep himself dragging his sub up his body and show him exactly what he’s doing to Phil. He feels the need to _Claim Claim Claim_ rushing through him with every beat of his heart. 

Clint leans into him and giggles, an endearingly goofy sound. He’s managed to keep a hold of his gun, but now sets it on the table and wraps his arms around Phil, tilting his head down to rub his cheek against Phil’s shoulder. 

“No, you can’t leave that— Damn it,” Phil holsters his own gun and tucks Clint’s into the holster at the small of Clint’s back. He tries to lead him toward the door, “Come on. This way.”

As they walk, he starts to button up Barton’s coat against the freezing temperatures outside but Barton’s hands follow his, undoing his work, trying to strip his jacket off as he murmurs, “Naked. Naked for you, Sir.”

God damn, Phil wants that too; so fucking much. The need to Dominate fights his will like a tiger on a leash, snapping and snarling and wild, “No,” he tells himself, and then tells Clint, “No. Keep your clothes on. It’s going to be cold.”

“Don’ wanna be cold; wanna be naked.”

Phil pulls Barton to a stop and pushes his hands out of the way so that Phil can finish buttoning his coat and wind his scarf back around his neck, his fingers brush by Clint’s pulse point, warm and vulnerable under his fingers, and for a moment he lets his gloved thumb rest in the hollow of Clint’s throat. Clint’s hum of pleasure threatens to shred his control. _‘No. Focus.’_

Barton leans all his weight into Phil and Phil has to hold him tight to keep them from falling over as he walks them to the door. Clint buries his head in the crook of Phil’s neck whispering, “Wanna kneel, t’ crawl f’r y’, c’nnbe good,” and Phil feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t pin his sub to something and TAKE him, and that’s before Clint inhales deeply behind Phil’s ear, one of his favorite erogenous zones, and then _fucking licks him._

It’s more than Phil can take and he pushes Barton forcefully out the door with the last shred of his control.

The cold is a shock to his system and he feels his Need ebb from overwhelming to a steady background pulse. This he can handle. 

His stomach lurches, part in sympathy, part in dismay, as Barton pushes away from him and vomits into the gutter.

“Fuck. What the fuck,” he says, spitting to clear his mouth. His sub is in distress and Phil reaches his hand out but Clint pushes it away, “No! Fuck, no. Don’t touch me.”

Fuck, of course. Phil’s Need to _touch/protect/comfort_ isn’t as important as Barton’s autonomy. Phil takes a breath and steps back, watching Barton closely for something, anything, he can do. 

He isn’t sure at first, but no, Barton’s shoulders are tight and slumped down; there’s a pinched look in the corner of his mouth and his eyes are still dilated from his biological reaction to Phil’s Voice; everything in Phil is signaling alarm. His sub is in tailspin, “Shit. You’re Dropping.”

“I’m fine,” Barton grits out. 

“No, you’re not. You’re Dropping. I have a safe house nearby. Come on.”

“No! No. You do not get to tell me what to do. Not right now. Not after… after that.”

“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry,” he takes a step back and holds his hands up palm out. Phil will do anything to keep Clint safe, even if it’s from himself, “Wherever we go we can’t stay here. That won’t be the last Malina thug we see.”

“Shit. Fine. Safe house,” Clint gestures indicating that he’ll follow, “Now.”

Phil can’t keep himself from hovering, reaching out as Clint trips and swears.

“Fuck! Damn it, fine! Here,” he growls, reluctantly gripping Phil’s shoulder, “Let’s fucking go. Lead the fucking way.”

They have to double back a couple times to ensure no one tails them and takes them longer than Phil would like to get to the safe house, a small apartment set up through a number of SHIELD shell corporations. 

When they get inside Phil goes straight to the fridge and grabs Barton a bottle of water, then gets a chocolate power bar out of the aftercare kit. It’s nice to work for an agency that tries to prepare for any contingency. 

Barton sneers but grabs the water, finishing the bottle all in one go and then grabbing two more from the fridge before settling on the couch. 

The long, tense walk cleared Phil’s head and the regret for having to use his Voice had built on the way, “I really am sor—”

“Save it. I get it. Though I’m not sure how your sub can take it.”

The barb hits true, which is no surprise, this is Hawkeye after all. He can’t remember the last time a sub stayed with him past two or three play dates— not since Grant, probably. God, has it been that long? Everyone talks about how all subs want doms with deep Voices, but most find the reality doesn’t live up to the fantasy, “I don’t have a sub. It’s— I know it’s... a lot.”

“You did what you had to do.”

Phil may have put the monster back in its box, the Need to Protect Clint has ebbed, but the standards of good aftercare drilled into him by his parents prompts him to ask, “Is there anything I can—”

“No. I’m fine. We don’t have time for you to coddle me, and I’m a big boy, I don’t need it. I might be a little cranky, but a little ‘target practice’ and I’ll be right as rain. Look, our window is closing and this needs to happen now. So,” Barton challenges, “If you’re still okay with working with me now that you know I’m a sub, we should talk logistics.”

“Being a sub or a dom has nothing to do with why I wanted you for this job. I wanted Hawkeye, and I still want Hawkeye.”

God does he want Hawkeye. 

Barton makes a dismissive sound, obviously not believing him, but willing to accept it as a polite fiction so that they can get the job done. 

Barton’s almost finished with the power bar and Phil can’t help himself, he Needs to bring Clint another one, his Drive to take care of him stronger than the voice in his head that tells him to give Barton space. He compromises with himself, bringing over the aftercare kit and setting it on the coffee table within Barton’s reach, without handing him anything directly.

When Barton grabs another power bar Phil tries to hide his sigh of relief and goes to get the mission materials.

Phil leaves the lion's share of the planning to Barton, giving him the general outline Phil had completed on the flight to Odessa, letting Barton take lead on the op and any finishing touches. Phil’s had less and less time out in the field, especially compared to Barton, and since this is also a job interview of sorts he wants to see how Barton will handle it. 

Phil’s a little more familiar with Odessa and makes couple suggestions that Barton takes under consideration; he’s right, he’s cranky, but it doesn’t get in the way of the job. 

Before they get too deep into it Phil brings out the Scalpel and something inside him purrs in satisfaction at the way Barton practically drools over it, his hands caressing it like a lover. 

In the end, Phil might have been able to do this one solo, but there had been too much of a chance that he would have missed the shot, alerting the target and setting into motion a disastrous chain of events. He had no doubts at all about Barton’s ability. Not to mention it’s so much smoother as a two man team. 

Barton is everything in person that the reports make him out to be and more, and Phil knows then and there that he’s not going to be able to let him go. He wants Barton for SHIELD, almost as much as he wants him for himself. 

He feels a sharp but brief pain in his heart when he realizes the chances of getting both are slim, and after having Forced Barton to Obey, it’s likely he’s not going to want anything to do with Phil once this is all over. It will be fine. There are plenty of handlers that will pair well with Barton. Hand, or maybe Garrett. He refuses to let himself get jealous at the thought. 

He supposed it's better than Barton being a vox fox, Phil has had enough people in his life only want him for his Voice. 

They regroup at a different safehouse. Clint regretfully turning over the Scalpel while Phil finalizes the money transfer. 

“You could probably have done that yourself.” 

“To risky. I needed the best.”

“Hmph,” Barton mutters dismissively. 

“I’m serious. I wanted the best; which means I wanted you,” by some miracle Phil keeps his tone matter of fact.

“We should fuck.”

“I— what?!” It hits him from out of left field and he’s completely floored. He fumbles the laptop closed and forces down a blush. He can’t deny the mutual attraction, but he can’t throw everything away on would would likely be (an amazing) one night scene. He wants Barton to join SHIELD and for them to be able to work together on a daily basis without things being awkward.

“Let me be clearer, you should tie me to the bed, spank me til I cry, and then fuck my brains out. Come on, Talk dirty to me.”

Had Phil been wrong? Does Barton really just want to sleep with Phil for his Voice? 

“Mr.— I. Hawkeye. I don’t think—” 

Everything they have on Barton’s sex life is that he’s picky with his partners, that he barely ever goes Down and never Deep. He has to know what Phil could do to him.

“So don’t think. Going once. Going twice,” Barton licks his lower lip and then bites it, the look he gives Phil is pure sex. 

For a long moment Phil is tempted. Tempted in a way he never has been before. But then he remembers how his relationship ended with Jane. And Roz. And Grant. How it always ends. 

Jane hadn’t been with SHIELD and keeping his work secret had taken a toll, but the real reason it ended was that he was too controlling for her. The same with Roz, who quit SHIELD and left Phil in one fell swoop, needing her freedom. It took years for Grant and Phil to be able to work together again after their epic break up, and he knows he’s still overprotective of the field agent; it causes no small amount of friction between them. 

He just can’t put Barton through what being his sub means and there’s no way he can take what Barton’s offering once and not want more. 

“While I appreciate the offer,” Phil says sincerely, “I think it’s best if we retained a profession distance.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Fine. Sounds peachy.”

Shit. He’s fucking this up. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Barton. Hell, it’s one of the main reasons Phil is turning him down in the first place, “It’s not that I don’t—”

“I said it’s fine. I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

Barton takes off before Phil can explain himself. 


	4. Chapter 4

Phil sticks around Odessa, cleaning up loose ends from Sinister Minister (he is never letting Jasper name a mission again) and taking care of his personal business with Soroka. 

It takes him longer than it used to to take apart a criminal syndicate. Of course he has much more of a bigger picture mindset now than before he started working for Fury. A large part of taking down the mobster is making sure nothing worse takes his place, and the whole thing eats into Phil’s banked vacation days considerably. 

At least now the boss can’t complain that he never takes time to do the things he loves. 

And if a little time helps him deal with his Barton Obsession, so much the better. God. He should have taken Barton up on his offer when he had the chance. 

Things are quiet when he gets back to the Trisk; it’s like the world’s villains decided to take a vacation all at once and forgot to send SHIELD the memo. 

Phil tries not to be bitter. 

This is a good thing. 

Probably. 

Unfortunately it means he doesn’t have a reason to contact Barton. To find out if Phil, and more specifically his damnable Voice and pathological compulsion to overanalyze his love life, have fucked up things for him again. 

Finally there’s some activity out of Tarnak, a small Eastern European country with a dictator looking to make a name for herself by indiscriminately slaughtering everyone within reach, her own people included. 

**Dorrek Veranke. Eliminate. 5772156649.**

**Consider it done. We should get drinks sometime.**

Oh, thank God. He thought he had ruined any chance he had with Barton. 

That SHIELD had with Barton. 

He thinks about the offer. It would let them sit down, maybe talk things out, let Phil explain all the reasons it’s a bad idea— but then there’s a coup in South America and by the time he gets back it’s too late to reply. 

At least, that’s what Phil tells himself.

~~~

He has to scrape the bottom of the barrel to try and find a job that he can offer Barton. It’s not in Hawkeye’s wheelhouse and Phil has to payoff Hill with a bottle of Appleton 30 year and let her borrow Grant for her current project but Phil can use the job as part of the recommendation he’s putting together for Fury, it will add a little diversity to Barton’s portfolio. 

**Victor McCann. File: Bad Titan. Extraction. Drop Off Whiskey. 7062332801.**

**Got it. So, not drinks. Coffee? Everyone loves coffee.**

_‘What can it hurt?”_ Phil thinks; maybe this is something he could pursue while keeping things at work professional. After all, he’s grown as a person. He hasn’t checked up on Grant once, even though Hill has him in Peru and he knows how much Grant hates the jungle. 

As long as any relationship they have doesn’t interfere with work, it will be fine. 

Not that they have any sort of relationship. 

Not yet. 

**Hey, so I got shot for you. I think that should at least get me dinner.**

It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. 

Seconds after the message comes in Phil has traced it back to a cafe in London, and has Facial Recognition comb through every CCTV feed, traffic cam, and networked security camera for the last hour.

Barton’s good. 

Too good. There’s no trace of him. 

How hurt is he? Which of his Known Associates would he go to for help? Phil needs to get to him, to— 

_‘Wait. Stop. What are you doing?’_ He chastises himself, _‘You're being an idiot.’_

What he needs to do is start with any footage from around the McCann Estate from before the break in, starting from when Barton took the assignment and then go forward, tra—

“What the fuck, Phil?”

Jasper’s face appears on the other side of the big screen and Phil minimizes his windows guiltily.

“Please tell me this isn't what I think it is?”

“Like you’ve never used SHIELD resources—”

“It’s not what you’re doing, it’s why. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. It’s the same look you used to get when Ward would go dark. Something’s happened with Barton, hasn’t it?”

“He got shot. He got shot, Jasper, and it’s my fault. I knew it wasn’t—“

“ _Phil, calm down,”_ Jasper Orders.

Phil could ignore it, but he doesn’t want to. He takes a breath and feels his need to Protect ease. 

He sits down behind his desk, putting his elbows on the surface and burying his head in his hands, “What the hell am I doing, Jazz?”

“Look, you went a little bug fuck, there’s no shame in that, it happens to the best of us. The question is, what are you going to do now.”

Phil takes a deep breath and closes out the minimized windows without opening them; shaking off the last of the need to hunt down Barton and save him. Mostly. 

Barton is one of the most competent operatives Phil has ever seen. He can take care of himself. Hell, he was joking about getting shot, trying to leverage it into a date.

So, all Phil has to do is figure out if he can handle dating Barton and having him work for SHIELD.

Assuming Barton wants both. 

He could just be hung up on Phil’s Voice, could be looking for a quick slap and tickle and then be on his way. 

And what if Phil reveals SHIELD to him and he doesn’t want to join? He could continue as a consultant, assuming Barton doesn’t want to break ties completely. But is that something they could make work?

Or what if it goes the other way; what if Phil’s misjudged Barton. Can he really put Barton in the ground if he finds out about SHIELD and tries to go public or sell the information?

It’s rare for Phil to feel this uncertain about anything and until he can figure himself out he needs to keep his distance. 

**Maysa Mair. Eliminate. 8384748387**

**I’m thinking Italian. I know a great place in London. Come on. You know you want to.**

It’s probably (definitely) creepy of Phil to track down what restaurant Barton is talking about but if Phil’s going to live a rich fantasy life he’s going to have to indulge some of his vices. 

It’s a surprisingly formal restaurant; established in the 1800s it keeps to some very old traditions, strict dress code, table side kneeling, a variety of foods suited for hand feeding. It doesn’t seem like Barton’s style; though now that it’s in Phil’s head it’s all he can think about. 

Is he trying to tell Phil something? No, that’s ridiculous. Phil’s just guessing (hoping) that he’s figured out the right place; he’s reading too much into this. 

_‘Saved by the bell,_ ’ he thinks and then he recognizes the number and is tempted to let it ring, “Shit.”

Phil picks up the phone with no small amount of reluctance, he already knows he isn’t going to like what he hears. 

“Okay, so, first things first, I’m okay. I reattached the finger and everything.”

“Wilson,” Phil just manages to keep from pinching the bridge of his nose as he grits out, “Why are you calling from Madripoor.”

“Well, that’s the second thing, Agent Sexy Pants. I’m kind of still in Madripoor.”

“Yes, I caught that. What I really want to know is why aren’t you in Belfast?

“It’s kind of a long story? The upswing being that the Chancellor has way less of a sense of humor than you would think and monkeys are surprising hard to get to bite on command. It’s not the biting part, they’re great at that. It’s the command part. Kind of like me. The sad, sad, sad life of a switch. Though I think with the right dom, hint hint, I—”

Phil hangs up, thinking longingly of the bottle of scotch he no longer keeps in his bottom drawer. 

Great, now he needs a pinch hitter. Who does he have that’s in Western Europe?

Who is he kidding?

**Roxxon, Experiment 110,617. Eliminate. 3394634327.**

**Do you have *any* idea how good I look on my knees?**

Fuck. That is not fair. 

_Barton sits up on his knees at Phil’s feet, then wraps his free hand around Phil’s calf, pressing the side of his face into Phil’s thigh._

He knows exactly how good Barton looks on his knees. 

The memory’s been a guilty pleasure for months. 

He pictures Barton barefoot in nothing but those worn jeans that hugged his ass like they were painted on. In his imagination they’re butter soft to the touch.

Phil gets up and locks his office door. He’s got an hour until his next briefing, which is more than enough time to fully explore one of his favorite fantasies. 

_Phil has Clint place his hands behind his head and wait for inspection. No Command, no Order, Clint obeying because he wants to, not because he has to._

_Once he starts sweating, Phil comes up behind him and circles Clint’s wrists with his fingers before making his way down Clint’s forearms, then biceps, then rubbing his neck and shoulders. Phil gets to his knees behind Clint, straddling his legs, pressing himself up against Clint’s ass and one hand on his hip, pulling Clint closer, pressing his growing erection into the cleft of Clint’s ass, the other sliding up his chest, tweaking a nipple and then resting with light pressure against his throat, eliciting a soft moan from Clint as he starts to Slip into subspace._

_“You’re mine,” Phil says, and Clint moans again, Slipping Deeper, “Say it.”_

_“Oh, God. Yes, Sir. I’m yours, Sir,” the words vibrating under Phil’s fingers._

Phil slides his hand into his lap and presses down on his dick.

_Phil opens Clint’s jeans with the hand that had been on Clint’s hip, and Clint’s dick springs forward from its confines, the tip already red and leaking. Phil pulls out Clint’s balls so that he’s completely exposed and Phil squeezes them gently, “Do you like that, sweetheart?”_

_“Oh, fuck, yes Sir.”_

_“I’m not sure you do. Maybe I should stop.”_

Phil unbuttons and unzips his pants and pulls out his dick.

_“No, Sir, please? Please don’t stop? Please? I like it, Sir. I love it. I love the way you touch me, the way you make me feel. Please, I want more. I’ll be good, Sir,” his voice husky with need._

Phil slicks his hand with lotion and starts slowly stroking his dick as he imagines Barton, on his on his knees for Phil, begging. 

_“What kind of more, baby; do you want me to tie you up? Do you need a spanking? Or should I just bend you over and fuck you right now.”_

_“Oh, fuck me. Fuck me, Sir. I need you inside me, I need you to own me.”_

Phil moans.

_He pushes Clint forward on to his hands and knees, and now they’re both naked on Phil’s bed and he’s rubbing his dick from behind Clint’s balls to up past his asshole and back again, “This, is this what you want sweetheart?”_

_“More! Oh, more. Please Sir? Please, I need you, need you to fuck me. Please? I need to feel you open me up, I need your dick, please? Please, fuck me, Sir, I want you so much, I can’t take it!”_

Phil makes a tight ring of his fingers and imagines they’re Barton’s ass opening up around him.

_Phil takes his time, going as slowly as he can as his sub begs for more._

_“Oh, yeeeeesssss; in me, take me, Sir, fuck me, faster, sir, harder. Can I move? Please let me move, Sir? Let me use my ass to please you, please, Sir. Anything Sir, please?”_

Fuck, he’s close. He grabs some tissues.

_“Fuck me, Clint, give me your ass, all of it, all of you; fuck me with your ass and come around my dick. Come for me, come for me, Clint, come for me.”_

_“Oh fuck! Yes, Sir; I am, I coming, oh, God, oh, Phil!” Clint cries out as he comes around Phil’s dick._

Phil comes into the tissues at the thought of Barton yelling his name.

**Hope you didn’t need that building. On the upside it makes a great crater. Maybe someone can turn it into a lake?**

It’s almost as if Wilson had done the work himself. It’s impressive, and a little frightening the level of damage Barton is capable of. 

Jobs are still scarce in the ground; the best Phil’s got is a virus that needs to be uploaded at a difficult to reach hard point. And the only reason he can justify using Barton is that Maria’s reappropriated nearly all of his Agents from Assignments to Task Force.

Phil has always been terrible at flirting. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victoria’s Secret's ad’s song is the opening to Lizzo’s Lingerie.

**Premila Mohan. Upload. Pick Up Echo. 8418694844**

**Hey, so did you see that Victoria’s Secret ad? Do you think I could pull that off? I’m pretty sure I could pull that off.**

Phil’s brain freezes for a good five seconds. He knows exactly which ad Barton is talking about. 

The one that’s banned in the more traditional countries for encouraging unsubmissive behavior. 

It starts with a low rhythmic beat and a sultry synth line; the scene shadowed with a sepia pallet. The model’s bare shoulders and neck are richly dark like coffee with just a hint of cream and he has a high and tight fade ending in a short Afro. He walks away from the camera as the electric guitar chimes in, each note sliding into the next. His outfit comes into focus, a black leather waist cincher that ends a few inches over a pair of black micro shorts, and six inch heeled boots, so high that the tops nearly touch the bottom edge of his underwear, which exposes a generous amount of ass cheek. 

The model is backlit by floor to ceiling windows with gauzy white curtains that billow in the wind. The music almost seems to gasp as he turns in time to a short splash from a cymbal. His green eyes, kohled to be smokey with just a bit of shimmer and framed with impossibly long lashes, are as bright as the diamond studs in his ears and his plump lips, shaded in a red so dark it’s almost black, curve in a smile that says ‘Trouble’.

He walks backwards, crooking a finger in a ‘follow me’ gesture. The cincher is tight at the top but starts to become unlaced halfway towards the bottom, exposing his taut stomach and a diamond that hangs from his belly button which matches his earrings; the laces of the cincher fall to either side of his slight bulge, strategically drawing the eye downward, the music following. 

There’s a large desk in front of the window; when he reaches it he turns back around in time with the beat, places his hands on the surface of the desk, and bends over slightly, exposing more skin between his ass and his thighs. He looks back over his shoulder at the viewer with an arched eyebrow, issuing a challenge. 

There’s a shadowy movement and then the strands of a flogger shake out in front of the camera, they obscure the image of the model until the scene goes dark as the singer says one word. 

“Damn.”

Yes. Yes, Barton could definitely pull that off. 

**Asa Iemitsu. Eliminate. 4545104035**

**You me. Satin sheets and silk ropes. Think about it.**

“So what’s this about, Coulson?” Grant asks one dark brown brow raised, milk chocolate eyes serious above his perpetual five o’clock shadow and deeply tan after nearly four months in Peru, “My favorite cafe, outside, giving me the best sight lines and plenty of escape routes? I’m starting to think I’m not going to like this conversation.”

“I appreciate your willingness to meet with me at all. You know this isn’t work related, it’s personal. You don’t have to be here.”

Grant looks at him with fond exasperation, “You’re stalling. Come on, spit it out. Let's get this over with so I can enjoy my cappuccino.”

Phil stares into his hazelnut latte as if it holds the answers to the universe. He hates this. Hates making himself vulnerable. 

“When did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That it was over?”

“Phil,” Grant says with a sigh.

“This isn’t— I’m not trying to debrief our relationship. I just need to know when it got to be too much,” he looks away, not wanting to see Grant’s expression, “When I got to be too much.”

Grant’s still for a moment, and then sips his drink.

“It wasn’t all you. I had my own shit I was dealing with. I was quick to assume the worst. I can admit that now.”

“You know that I never wanted to control you.”

“We both know that’s not completely true.”

Phil winces.

“But I know what you mean, Phil. And I know you would never Take my independence,” Phil catches Grant’s apologetic shrug, “Or I know that now. And it took time, but we’re able to work together again. Things must not have been all that bad, right?” He asks with a sad smile.

Phil remembers the fights, the accusations. Phil was overbearing, Grant needed his freedom, Phil couldn’t satisfy Grant without his Voice; late night shouting matches that always ended with Grant Down and a sick feeling in the pit of Phil’s stomach. 

Grant gets off on humiliation, it’s a primal need for him; but every time Phil gave in a little part of him died. 

But Grant’s right. It hadn’t been all bad. 

In the beginning Grant had liked all of the attention from Phil, the way Phil always wanted to be touching him, a hand at the small of his back, a finger resting lightly on his wrist; the little gifts Phil would leave for him in his go bag, his favorite chocolate, or the picture of them kissing in Paris, the city lit up behind them; but at some point it all stopped being charming and started feeling oppressive. 

Grant accused Phil of wanting to own him, the bite marks and bruises, the little touches and gifts weren’t tokens of love, they were Phil marking his properly, warning away any other doms. 

And the thing of it is, Grant wasn’t entirely wrong.

Oh, Phil didn’t want to own him, not really; he always wanted Grant to be his own person, but Phil had felt a need to stake his Claim, to show the world Grant was _his_. 

He knows he had been withholding in bed; his own issues with Dominating kept him from giving Grant what he needed. But even still, Grant has always maintained that that the sex was incredible. 

Phil smiles sadly, “No. No, it wasn’t all bad.”

“I think in the end we just want different things. That doesn’t make me a bad sub, or you a bad dom.”

“I never thought you were a bad sub!”

Grant laughs, more carefree than Phil can remember hearing him be in a long time, “I didn’t say I was. I’ve learned that I can be a very bad boy and still be a good sub,” he sobers, “But I can see you’re avoiding the second part.”

Phil looks away, frowning. 

“Phil, look at me,” Grant takes his hand and gently rubs Phil’s knuckles until he meets Grant’s eyes, “You’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself. Somewhere out there there’s a sub that’s just as much too much as you are. You can’t be afraid to let yourself find that.”

“I— Thank you, Grant.”

“Now, buy me a muffin and I’ll tell you all the latest Task Force gossip.”

**Nella Brooks. Eliminate. 6373636333**

**Hey, so what’s the name of your cologne? Out of everything that happened that night, the one thing I can’t get out of my head is how good you smell.**

That’s the one thing he can’t get out of his head? Not the embarrassing way Phil acted, or his Voice, or the way the night ended, but the way he smells?

It’s the last piece clicking into place for Phil, and he’s ready to pull the trigger. He wants Barton. Barton wants him. Or at least, Barton thinks he wants Phil. Phil has to give them a chance. 

He knows Barton better than any other person on the planet. He might not take Phil up on SHIELD’s offer, but he’s not going to be a security risk. Phil’s sure that even if Barton isn’t comfortable with working for SHIELD directly, he’ll be willing to continue taking individual jobs from Phil. 

Either way he hopes Barton will still want Phil after finds out about SHIELD. 

**F2F. Angelo’s.**

**Finally.**

~~~

Phil wears his best suit, the dark blue one, with a black shirt and the tie May bought him that she says brings out his eyes. 

He doesn’t get there too early and doesn’t have much time to wait before Barton shows up. 

Barton’s wearing an untucked royal purple button down with French cuffs that molds his body perfectly and black slacks that leave nothing to the imagination. His dress shoes have been buffed to within an inch of their life, and his polished obsidian chevron cufflinks pick up flickers of the low light. 

The hostess is trailing after him with a scowl, Barton doesn’t fit the dom dress code and nothing about him say’s ‘sub’, but Phil waves her off. They engage in a brief battle of wills; when he motions Barton to sit in the chair opposite him she gives in with a disapproving little shake of her head. 

Even if Barton had planned on kneeling for Phil, he wants to start them out on even ground; and once he indicates the chair Barton appears relieved. 

“Hawkeye.”

“Restraint.”

“Actually, it’s Phil. Phil Coulson.”

Barton looks startled; Phil wonders if he unsettles Barton as much as Barton does him. 

“Nice to meet you, Coulson,” he says, pointedly glancing from Phil’s eyes to his lips and back again. 

Phil isn’t quite ready for that conversation, “Would you like to eat first, or get straight to business?”

“What kind of sub do you take me for? Buy me dinner first.”

Phil nods and picks up his menu. His eyes are drawn to the hand feeding section. He decides there's no harm in ordering the prosciutto and melon appetizer, and if he gets added pleasure from watching Barton lick the juices from his fingers, he’s only human. 

He keeps the conversation light, sticking to the more harmless stories; the one where baby agent Phil screwed up but managed to pull everything together in the end followed by the disaster that was the first time he and May had to pose as a couple, and then his personal favorite about Jasper and the crocodile.

He manages to steer Barton into a couple of his own stories, pranks he and his brother had pulled as teenagers on ‘a couple of clowns’ they knew (very funny, Barton), a military mission that went FUBAR, meeting the Black Widow (Phil gets a little star struck at that one), and for a little while he can pretend this is a normal date. Normal for people in their line of work, at any rate. 

The tiramisu is legendary and when Barton gives him puppy dog eyes at the server’s description Phil knows he’s going to give in. It’s made for sharing, and Phil realizes his mistake the second Barton takes his first bite. 

To be fair, it’s one of the best things Phil has ever put in his mouth, so he can’t really blame Barton for his moans of pleasure, even though they send Phil’s thoughts in decidedly unprofessional directions. 

When Barton dabs the last of the mascarpone from the plate, sucking it off his thumb while maintaining eye contact, Phil’s tempted to drag Barton across the table and lick the taste out his mouth. 

Phil clears his throat, bringing himself back under control, and says, “Well. We should get down to business,” taking a drink of wine to help settle himself down.

Clint gives a disappointed huff, “You can’t blame me for sucking every ounce of pleasure out of you for as long as I have you.”

Phil chokes on his wine, his eyes watering and it takes him several beats to catch his breath. 

Clint Barton is going to be the death of him. 

But what a lovely way to go. 

Once he’s composed himself, Phil pulls out a folder from the messenger bag that he had been keeping between his feet, his heart pounding. There’s three main ways Phil thinks this will go: 1) Barton’s pissed off but willing to take the offer, 2) Barton’s pissed off but walks away 3) Barton’s pissed off and starts shooting. 

There’s the off chance that Barton will be impressed instead of pissed off, but in all the years Phil has delivered this test that has never been the case. 

Whatever happens, Phil has to be sure that no word of SHIELD’s existence gets out. Their anonymity is the linchpin in their effectiveness. Phil’s betting Barton’s life that even if he doesn’t go with option one, he’ll keep his mouth shut. 

Barton smirks as he opens the file and then his face freezes. 

“What the fuck.” 

“Let me explain.”

“Explain? Explain why you have a folder on me? What the fuck is this, Coulson?

“It’s a job offer, Mr. Barton.”

“What?” Barton says, giving Phil a perplexed look. 

While Barton’s the first operative he’s personally recommended for Recruitment, Phil’s almost always the one to make the offer as either he or Maria make the final recommendation to Fury and it’s their responsibility to handle any offers that go bad. 

Maria is not what you would call a ‘people person’ and Phil tends to be better at clean up anyway so they have an agreement that Phil handles this part and in exchange Maria rarely fights him when it comes time to designate the new recruit as primarily Assignments or Task Force. 

Phil has the speech down pat, “What I am about to say is completely confidential. If you choose to walk away, and you do have that choice, you can’t tell anyone about this meeting or what you hear tonight.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Barton sits forward in his chair, his eyes on high alert.

“I’m with SHIELD. No, I’m not kidding. Yes it’s real. And we want you to come work for us full time,” and here Phil goes a little off script without meaning to, “I want you to come work for us.”

“What the fuck?”

“Your talents are being wasted. You could be so much more than a hired gun.”

“And you want me to come work for the boogeymen? Doing what? If I’m not just a hired gun then what?”

“Mostly the same work you’re doing now; assassinations, missions into hostile territory to capture enemy personnel or materials. The occasional rescue. Maybe a small coup here or there. But now you’d have a team. Backup. Access to our resources. And we are very, very, resourceful.”

“Jesus. What’s in it for you?”

“We’d be able to use you on more sensitive missions, ones that rely on the highest level of discretion; as well as more long term projects. And as I told you before, I want the best. I want you.”

Barton flips through the file, his expression growing darker and darker as he reads his life story laid out in black and white. 

“This isn’t an intimidation tactic, Mr. Barton. We needed you to know how serious we are. The kind of intel we have access to,” and it’s a lie, part of it is absolutely meant to be intimidating, but the lie is part of the test, too. If nothing else, it lets recruits know that SHIELD is serious about their anonymity, and the lengths they are able to go to to keep that anonymity. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“I’m the only one that knows what’s in that file. That’s the only copy and it’s yours to dispose of whether you take the offer or not.”

Barton visibly swallows, “And if I don’t take the offer? What happens then?”

“Nothing changes. We maintain contact for freelance jobs. But if you breathe a word about us, or this offer,” Phil shrugs apologetically, as if killing Barton is something he would be capable of without a flicker of conscience, when nothing could be further from the truth. 

God. Phil really hope he doesn’t have to kill him. 

“And if I want you and not them?”

“What I do in my private life is at my discretion,” Phil says and gives Barton a heated look, “And I already know how discrete you can be.”

Barton studies the file and then continues to flip through it without really looking at it. Phil gives him time, sipping his wine and watching the minute changes in Barton’s expression and body language. He can tell the exact moment Barton makes his decision, though Phil still isn’t sure which way he will go. It’s an unsettling feeling. Phil isn’t used to not being sure. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m in.”

“Then I have some documents for you to sign. Do you have any personal projects that you need to finish? While you’ve obviously worked for us before as a Consultant, there is an induction process. You’ll be able to test out of the majority of the classes, and I don’t have any doubts about your ability to handle the few that you will have to take.”

“Classes?” Barton smirks, “I’m really not the classy type,” he says with double meaning. 

“I think you sell yourself short, Mr. Barton,” Phil says, replying to both of them. 

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can prove it to you,” Phil says, giving Barton a lingering once over. 

Barton’s smiles and he stares at Phil’s mouth, “I look forward to you teaching me a lesson or two.”

“First, sign here, here, initial here, and sign here.”

It takes a while for Barton to finish reading everything. Every now and then he can tell Barton’s confused by something, but rather than ask about it he bites his lip or tugs on his hair and powers through, all of which has Phil thinking incredibly inappropriate thoughts. 

“For an organisation that doesn’t exist, you sure have a lot of paperwork.”

“SHIELD was started as a joint American, British, Soviet, and Chinese agency. It’s self-sufficient now, but as you can imagine, it has an extensive bureaucratic legacy.”

“So, before I finish signing, there’s one thing I have to know about SHIELD.”

“And that is?”

“What’s your policy on fraternization?” Barton asks. 

“Relationships need to be disclosed to HR, and depending on the circumstances they may check in periodically to ensure there’s no professional misconduct,” Phil smiles letting some of his Hunger show, “Or did you mean my personal policy?”

“Both,” Barton says, biting and then licking his lip. 

“As long as nothing interferes with the work, I don’t have a problem with it. As I said, what I do in my private life is at my discretion.”

“Well then,” Barton says, signing the last page, “What’s say we go back to my place for a bit of discrete fraternizing?”

“I’d like that, Mr. Barton. I’d like that very much, but,” he says, watch Barton’s expression become concerned, and Phil barely keeps his Voice in check, “I think that’s something you have to earn, don’t you?”

“Oh, fuck me,” he says, eyes dilating, “Yeah— I mean, yes, Sir. I’d like that.”

“Tie up any loose ends you have, and I’ll meet you in DC.”

“Sir, yes Sir,” Barton says, his voice filled with promise. 


	6. Chapter 6

Whenever anyone else around Barton keeps his flirtation work appropriate, though just barely. It’s the second best part of Phil's day. 

The best part of Phil’s day is when it’s just the two of them and the gloves come off. 

The first time is right after the orientation meeting with all the new recruits; most of them practically children, just out of college, a handful will go through the long process of becoming field agents, the vast majority of the rest were recruited by other department heads and are destined for positions that keep the ship afloat. There are a couple others like Barton, independent contractors already proven in the field, their coursework will be geared more for the ramp up into SHIELD’s culture than for any skill training. 

The room has cleared and Phil is still packing up his materials when Barton stops in front of him, meets his eyes, and deliberately drops his pencil. 

“Oops! How clumsy of me,” Barton says, batting his eyelashes like an ingenue and then bending over, showing off his ass. 

Phil can’t keep his eyes off of him, and Barton smirks over his shoulder as he walks out the door.

~~~

The next time is in the break room on the fourth floor. No one’s been able to figure out why but it’s the best coffee in the building. Phil doesn’t make it down here very often and he’s surprised to see Barton; though he shouldn’t be considering the sub’s caffeine addiction.

“Coulson,” he says with a sloppy salute, two fingers tapping his eyebrow once, “I thought Director Fury kept you chained to your desk.”

Lillian from accounting lets out a shocked gasp. SHIELD is better than most places about combating toxic dynamism but it’s a slow road and there’s a lot of dominants that would be insulted by the implication that anyone would chain them anywhere. 

“Time off for good behavior. Plus, no one wants to see what happens when I don't get my coffee; requisitions misfiled, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together,” Phil says, and Barton joins him for the end of the quote, “Mass hysteria!”

Lillian grabs her coffee and leaves, rolling her eyes. 

As soon as she’s gone, Barton drops a sugar packet, raises his eyebrow, and bends over to get it. Phil can’t take his eyes off of Barton’s perfect ass and forgets his mug when he goes to back out of the room. 

“Forgetting something, sir?” Barton asks, picking up Phil’s mug. 

“I— Yes. Thank you, Barton,” their fingers brush and Phil has to resist pulling Barton in close and kiss the smug look off his face. 

If Phil is any one thing, it’s patient. He knows if he bides his time he can make their first kiss something neither one of them will ever forget. He’s always loved to tease his subs with pleasure until they can’t take anymore; having Barton do the teasing makes it that much sweeter. 

~~~

After the third time, Phil is ready; Phil’s just finished a logistics class, specifically how to get a resupply while in hostile territory. Once again the room has emptied and it’s just Phil and Barton. 

Barton leans his hip against the side of the table where Phil is sitting. He takes Phil’s pen from his hand and drops it. When Barton bends over Phil stands up and presses his hardening dick against Barton’s pert ass, bending over the sub to pick up the pen, placing a hand on Clint’s chest and half lifting him as they stand up together and then, with his lips brushing Clint’s ear, he hands Barton the pen and whispers, “You dropped this,” and walks away without giving into temptation to see Barton’s expression. Phil will have to make due with his almost inaudible whimper. 

After that Barton tries a couple variations; Phil almost cracks when Barton goes to knees, _‘Do you have *any* idea how good I look on my knees?’_ and it’s even better than Phil had fantasized. Barton places his hands behind his back and for a moment Phil pictures black leather cuffs holding them there. He pulls his shoulders back and pushes out his chest before grabbing a stapler he’d pushed off Phil’s desk like a cat. 

Barton sees that one land and makes a point of going to his knees whenever possible. 

~~~

It doesn’t take long before Phil’s hands are all over Barton. 

Every time Barton goes to his knees, Phil is there to help him up; the more provocative Barton is, the more Phil rewards him, a hand gently squeezing his ass, another time just barely rubbing his nipple through his shirt. 

At one point Barton is on his knees and he brings his chest all the way to the carpet, his hands behind his back, and grabs the top handle of a binder clip with his teeth while staring into Phil’s eyes. Phil’s there before he can sit up, gripping the back of his neck and holding him in place for a second and then Phil half pulls, half guides Barton to his feet. He takes the clip from Barton’s mouth, fingertips almost but not quite touching his lips, and then he blanks his face and takes a step back saying, “Thank you, Barton.

The desperate look on Barton’s face makes it worth every second of personal frustration.

~~~

They’re in Phil’s office; Barton’s made it a habit to come by in the morning to talk about the day’s work or to share gossip before Barton has to get to class when he ‘accidentally’ brushes a folder off Phil’s desk and on to the floor in front of him. 

Instead of walking around the desk Barton goes to his knees on the other side from Phil and then crawls to him, stretching out his back and reaching his arms across the floor before picking up the folder and setting it on Phil’s desk. He moves like liquid sex when he stands, brushing up against Phil’s legs and caging him in his chair by holding on to the armrests.

“Is there anything else, anything at all, I can do for you, Sir?” He licks his lips and flicks a glance down at Phil’s rock hard dick. 

Phil can hear his Voice ringing in his ears, demanding he take what’s being offered, that he kiss Barton senseless and then push Barton’s head into his lap and Order him to suck Phil off, hard and fast and sloppy, but Phil fights it, knowing the longer he can hold out the more explosive it will be when he lets go. 

He looks deep into Barton’s eyes, willing him to see the Hunger in Phil before he grips Barton’s hip and forcefully turns him around. Phil places his hands firmly on Barton’s ass and squeezes, once, twice, and on the third squeeze moves his thumbs up and between his cheeks, lifting and separating them as he rubs Clint’s ass. God, Clint would let Phil fuck him right here and now, Phil could bend him over the desk or have Clint sit back ride Phil’s dick; Clint’s ass was made for Phil’s dick, and it would be quick work to slip down Barton’s pants and slick him up with the lube in his desk. Phil keeps kneading until he feels Barton relax into it the slightest bit, letting Phil take whatever he wants. Clint moans softly and Phil knows he’s had enough. 

Phil’s near to breaking, himself.

He pushes Clint towards the door with a brisk, “That will be all, Barton,” in a dry even tone he didn’t think he was capable of under the circumstances. 

As soon as Barton shuts the door, Phil presses down on his dick for a few sweet seconds of pressure. He doesn’t have time to do anything about it now but he’s going to replay this memory tonight when he’s at home in bed, with a few important details changed.

Like what Barton’s wearing.

Or, more accurately, not wearing. 

~~~

Maria hates it when Phil visits the recruits while they’re sparring, claiming (not unjustifiably) that he uses the opportunity to ferret out the best recruits for Assignments and leaving the rest for her department. Phil hasn’t told her about all the recruits that he’s steered her way, better suited to the longer running Task Force missions; that would take half the fun out of it. 

This class though, Phil only has eyes for Barton; he knows he should be watching the others, seeing how they all fit together, figuring out who will go best where. It’s his super power, being able to see a bunch of disparate pieces and figuring out the best way to put them all together, knowing the right person, or team of people, for the right job. 

“Hill,” Phil says as Maria comes up beside him. 

“Coulson.”

“Grant says you’re making progress?”

“We are. Walk with me?”

Phil gives Barton one last lingering once over and then gestures for Maria to lead the way. She takes them on a route through the Triskelion that will limit the number of prying ears. 

“It’s one person. It has to be. We got one of the generals to talk. Sort of. All he’ll say is that she’s going to burn it all down and rebuild from the ashes. That she’s a Phoenix come to, quote, ‘save us all’. There aren’t that many people on Earth that have a Voice powerful enough to pull off what she’s doing. Being able to Order this many people and have it stick long term? Even Caesar hadn’t been able to pull of Pax Vox. It shouldn’t be possible. Whatever her endgame is, it can’t be good. So, how is she doing it?”

“She’s probably only Talking to a few key people, then letting her Orders flow through them. It wouldn’t be too difficult; start with a face to face with your heavy hitters, then have regular follow up calls to keep your top tier in line. Digital transmissions lose some fidelity, but with a strong enough Voice I can see it,” Phil shrugs, “At least, that’s how I would do it.”

It’s _exactly_ how he would do it. 

Phil feels a wave of unease. 

“How high of a Marston factor would Phoenix need to have in order to hold together a net like that? Could a strong enough Beta do it?” Maria asks; Phil is the resident expert on SHIELD’s classification system.

“No. It would have to be an Alpha; though unless I miss my guess, she’s an Omega.”

“Omega?” Maria laughs, “Omegas are a myth.”

Phil doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t say anything. 

“Phil?”

“There are maybe a thousand Alphas out there, and with that level of power comes a certain amount of ego; a… Hunger. A Drive to Conquer. To Dominate. But it comes in spikes and while some of Alphas might be strong enough to pull something like this off in the short term, it would take its toll. We’re talking about sustaining that Hunger for months on end. It would drive most doms mad, if they were able to do it at all.”

“Most dominants, but not your Omega?”

“I would have expected things to start breaking down by now but, if anything, Phoenix’s Control has gotten stronger. An Omega’s Hunger feeds on itself, the more Powerful they feel, the more Power they crave. If an Omega were to give into that power, there’s not much that could stop them, not if they’re smart about it.”

“A long distant bullet might do the trick.”

“And that means finding her in the first place, which won’t be easy. You can’t let any of your people get too close, or Phoenix will turn them. But, intercept the right targets and you could start dismantling her network. That would draw Phoenix out. Then you’ll have to surprise her, take her down before she can Speak.”

“We’ve taken a dozen of her highest level operatives, we’re talking people who are global threats in their own right. So far we take out one and another just replaces them.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the right one soon. In the meantime I’ll send you what we have on Omega theory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m using Marvel’s mutant rating as something SHIELD developed in house. I may post all of my notes on population density and what not over in the appendix at some point.


	7. Chapter 7

“In position.”

“Take the shot.”

“Are you sure about this, Boss? There’s an argument to be made that she’s done a lot of good.”

“A benevolent dictator is still a dictator. You said it yourself. She isn’t going to stop,” when Phil doesn’t respond Fury says, “Coulson? Take the shot.”

“The world has arguably been a better place. Is what she’s doing really all that different from what we do?”

“We don’t make people’s decisions for them, we just clean up their messes. And make no mistake, if she isn’t stopped, things are going to get very messy. So take the damn shot.”

“She and I aren’t so different, you know.”

“There is a wild world of difference between someone with an Alpha rating, even one as powerful as you are, and an Omega. I’ve met one in person, trust me, if anything the superstitions undersell their threat. If Xavier ever shows any intention of doing more than run his little school, I‘ll put a bullet in him, too; I’ve got a sniper on him 24/7 just in case. Even if she weren’t trying to take over the world, I’d consider taking her out for the safety of the planet. Now. Take. The. Shot.”

“What happened to ‘We don’t make people’s decisions for them’ Sir?”

“She’s made hers. Why are you fighting this? I’m surprised I haven’t seen recommendations for an Omega protocol. _Take the shot, Coulson,”_ Fury’s strong, an 8 at least, and if Phil were the Alpha Fury thinks he is it might have worked. He’s going to have to be even more cautious around Fury than he was before or Phil will get to experience any Omega protocols he puts in place first hand. 

“We haven’t even tried talking to her.”

“Don’t you dare do what I think you’re thinking of doing; it’s too dangerous. I know you’re one tough son of a bitch, Phil, but you don’t know what you’re getting into. If she compromises you—”

“I’m sorry, Nick. I have to try,” Phil clicks off his com. 

The Costa Rican villa is buried deep in the rainforest, it’s quiet except for a few late night sounds; instead of armed guards there’s a dominant’s recorded Voice that plays over the PA, a steady stream of, “ _Keep out_ ,” that is strong enough that even Phil has a hard time getting past it. 

Phoenix is sitting in the conservatory, the light is a beacon in the night; she’s having a cup of tea and reading a book. She looks up and smiles when she sees him, “Pip. I was wondering when you would show up. Is that for me?”

She nods towards the Scalpel slung at his side.

“I hope not.”

“You couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t pull the trigger,” she laughs, “That’s always been your problem, Pip. No follow through.”

“Jeanie. You have to stop.”

“Join me for a cup of tea.”

“Thanks, I’ll stand.”

“I said, _‘Sit down, Phillip.”_

He’s on the ornate wicker bench next to her before he can stop himself.

“You always were better at that than I was.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. We both know you hold yourself back.”

Phil remembers the testing when they first met, sometimes separately, sometimes together. Sometimes facing off against each other. They had been kids, Phil thirteen and trying to put up a big front; Jean, barely 10 years old, so young to have such responsibility. She was the first person he ever felt the Need to Protect. 

Over the years Jean came to fewer and fewer studies, seeing the research as beneath her. It’s been close to a decade since he last saw her. 

She still has the same peaches and cream skin, with maybe a few crows feet starting to come in around her emerald eyes, and her hair falls around her in a spill of scarlet flames, but it’s her smile; her smile is what he remembers most. 

Open and sincere, it invites you to share all your secrets. He remembers sneaking them out for ice cream and late night talks about who they were going to be, how they were going to change the world. 

“You were right you know,” she says pouring him a cup of tea, “It didn’t take an army. Just a handful of people.”

He leans forward and takes the tea; setting it aside he takes her hand and looks into her eyes, “You know this is wrong, Jeanie. We can’t Take people’s freedom. They have to be allowed to make their own choices.”

“They can’t be trusted to make the right choices. There’s a reason we have this gift, Pip. People Need a firm hand. They Need someone to Tell them what to do. They Need to Obey.”

“We don’t have the right.”

“Our right is in our blood. We were born to Rule. I know you _feel the Hunger_ ,” She Commands, pulling him closer.

His Control slips and he feels it well up inside him, the need to Dominate, to Bend the world to his will, he feels it consuming him, “Don’t—”

“ _JOIN ME_.”

Yes! Together they will— No. No he can’t. He can’t let her do this. 

“ _No, Jean,_ you can still _STOP this_.”

She cries out and her Voice falters, “ _We could RULE_ _together, Phillip Jay Coulson._ _THEY NEED US_ _!_ ”

She’s beating him, his Will is crumbling, “ _JEAN,_ _STOP THIS MADNESS_.”

“No! _NO_! _ANYTHING WE WANT IS OURS_!”

He’s trapped in the strength of her Voice, she has him and he knows he can’t fight it. He’s lost. And if she was powerful before, there will be no stopping her with Phil at her side.

He feels it open up inside him, everything he’s ever held back, the monster let out of its box, and it’s Hungry. He’s Hungry. He is the monster. And nothing will stop him from Taking what he wants, the world is his and he will Bend it to his Will.

“Ours,” he agrees. 

“I knew you’d see it my way, Pip. So, what do you want first?”

Clint. He wants Clint, wants his submissive to be there, kneeling at his feet. His. _Owned_.

No.

No he wants Clint by his side. He doesn’t want to Own him; he wants a partner, not a pet.

He shakes off her influence and with a sudden preternatural clarity knows what he has to do.

“ ** _JEAN ELAINE GREY_** ,” he Commands, his Voice pouring forth like the wrath of God, “ ** _STOP_**.”

“What—?” Her eyes go wide and she raises her fingers to her nose, they come away with blood and they both know what he’s done.

“Oh, Jean,” he says, his voice breaking; he’s failed her, “I’m sorry.”

“Pip…” she says, lost. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he holds her hand to his heart and cradles her face, “I love you, Jeanie.”

She pulls him close and with the last of her Will she Whispers in his ear, “ ** _The world is ours_** ,” and then collapses against him, lifeless. 

He feels it, the intense Hunger, the need to Control, to Own.

No. No, that isn’t what he wants. It isn't who he is. 

It’s a fight to get the monster back in its box, the only thing that gets him through it is picturing Clint. 

His smirk. 

The way he teases Phil, giving as good as he gets. 

His disgust at being Controlled. 

The world will never know that it owes its freedom to Clint Barton. 

He gathers up Jean’s body and takes it outside. The smart thing to do, the right thing, would be to take it back for R & D to dissect, to see what they can learn from someone with that strong of a Marston factor; but he can’t do it. 

She lost her way and she was beyond saving. 

He knows that. 

But she was his friend. Closer in some ways than his own blood. The only person on the planet who really understood what it’s like to be born with a gift like theirs. 

Gift. 

No, it’s never been a gift. 

It’s a curse. 

He comms Fury, “It’s done.”

“ _Don’t you ever hang up on me again, Agent Coulson._ ”

Dampened by the connection and with the echo of Jean’s Words in his ear, Fury’s Voice is barely a feather brushing against his psyche.

“Sorry, boss. I had to try.”

“I need to be able to trust the agents under my command. How do I know you’re you, that Phoenix didn’t get to you?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me. Or put a bullet in me.”

“You know I’m not much one for trust, Phil.”

“Do you want a picture of the body?”

“No,” he says, then sighs, having obviously made up his mind, “No records. The less the world knows about this the better. If word gets out that there are dominants with this level of power there will be panic in the streets. We’re already going to have enough trouble dealing with the repercussions as it is. Every rabid dog on the planet has just been let off its chain. Wrap up and get back ASAP. We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

~~~

He’s back at the Trisk less than twelve hours later and heads straight for Fury’s office for a full debrief. He catches his reflection, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it all night, which he has; his shirt is wrinkled from sleeping in it with the sleeves rolled up— he caught a couple hours on the plane and shouldn’t be this tired, epic battle of Will aside. There’s a couple of drops of Jean’s blood on his collar; he makes a mental note to burn the shirt. Speaking of burning, his jacket is saturated with smoke from her pyre. He shrugs it off and folds it over his arm. 

“Director.”

“Shut the door,” Fury gestured to one of the visitor’s chairs, “Break it down for me, Phil.”

He drapes his jacket over the other chair, runs his hands through his hair for the millionth time, and shrugs. 

“I landed at the Carate airstrip at 17:00 local…”

~~~

They’re just wrapping up when Fury’s door slams open and then shut behind Maria Hill, who looks like she would be breathing fire if she could. 

“Agent Hill. You look like you have something on your mind. Have a seat.”

She goes to move Phil’s jacket and stares at suspiciously before handing to Phil with a deliberate sniff, “How was Costa Rica, Coulson?” 

“Dark. Damp. Snakes in the grass. You would have hated it.”

“And?”

“The target has been eliminated,” Fury tells Maria, “But that was the easy part.”

“I don’t remember it being that easy,” Phil murmurs. 

Phil goes over the highlights again, fighting off the exhaustion that wants to drag him down. 

When he’s finished, Fury tells Maria, “Coordinate with Assignments; there’s a storm coming and I need both of you on your ‘A’ game. Dismissed.”

“Sir.”

“Director.”

Phil follows Maria out, stifling a yawn as they walk towards their offices, “Let me finish my After Action for the boss, then we can sit down and go over what contingencies we’ve each planned and see if we can brainstorm any more. Give me an hour?”

“You look like death warmed over, Phil. I can handle this for now. Learn to take a day.”

“Hello, Pot, my name’s Kettle.”

“My point stands.”

“I’m already here and I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“So, was she? Was she an Omega?”

“No… No, just a very strong Alpha. You were right. Omegas are a myth.”

“One less thing to worry about then,” Maria smiles.

Phil chuckles, “Never say I never gave you anything.”

~~~

Barton is in Phil’s office when Phil opens the door. Phil tosses his jacket over the guest chair and tries to keep from collapsing at his desk. The only saving grace of this morning is that Barton’s brought him his coffee again.

It had started a couple of weeks ago. Phil had been in a terrible mood, he can’t even remember why, and Barton just showed up out of the blue, handing him a cup of fourth floor coffee with a splash of hazelnut creamer. 

His favorite. 

And exactly what he needed. 

The first sip seemed to melt his bones as his tension eased and he hummed softly before licking his lips, “Good. Thank you, Clint,” meaning more than the coffee.

After that it became a morning ritual, each morning his sub— The. Not his, not yet. The sub presenting Phil with his coffee, waiting for him to taste it and give his approval, “Good. Thank you, Clint,” before sitting on Phil’s couch and reviewing paperwork for his classes while Phil goes through his morning routine of checking for any urgent messages and fine tuning the day’s schedule. 

After the last twelve hours Phil has never been more grateful for their routine. He’s still swinging between Dropping, needing to collapse, to curl up into a ball and shut the world out; and Starving, the chemicals surging through his blood demanding he Claim Clint now, that he Take him on the couch, on his desk, on the floor. If he weren’t so tired he would already be inside his sub.

Barton’s act of service calms both extremes, the submissive gesture feeding them in different ways. He’s reaching for his cup when Clint stops him saying, “Nope. Go home and get some rest, Coulson.”

He wants to snarl, to snap, to Push Clint Down, to show his sub his place, to show him where he belongs— _‘NO_!’ He thinks; he can’t do that to Barton. He drags himself back down to something approaching normal, the monster redirected, Barton doesn’t need to be dominated, he needs to be cherished. 

Phil still needs his coffee; he has too much to do and too much he wants to put behind him as soon as possible: what happened, what he did, what he could do, what he wants to do, “Can’t. I need to—”

“What you need is to take care of yourself. Can whatever it is wait an hour? At least take a nap; I promise you’ll feel better.”

Barton is so earnest, and Phil battles with himself; responsibility to the job takes priority over making his sub happy, the thought dragging him out of his High and back towards a Drop, “It’s a nice thought but—”

“Please, Phil?” 

And that’s what does it. The sound of his Christian name on Barton’s lips, that’s the crack in his armor that Barton needed to land the final blow, “An hour. I’ll wake you up before I head to class. We’re practicing bomb defusal and you know I don’t want to miss that.”

“One hour, then I’ve got to get started on the After Action,” he says, closing the blank AAR he had opened and surrendering to the inevitable, allowing Barton to pull him to the couch. 

“Good boy,” Barton teases and the need to Claim roars through him. He lets Clint tuck him in with Dad’s afghan from the back of the couch and the beast settles, instead of Taking/biting/possessing he wants comfort/warmth/safety and he reaches out, snagging his sub. He’s so tired and his sub feels so good in the cradle of his arms and he chuffs into his ear, “You’re a good boy.”

This. This is what he Needed. What he was Hungry for. He doesn’t need the world. Everything he needs is right there in his arms. He tugs Clint to him, pulling his back to Phil’s front, resting so that the base of his sub’s neck is in easy biting distance, Clint’s arms fold over Phil’s and Clint holds him close. 

Phil hadn’t thought it was possible, but he actually starts to drift off. Clint sighs and settles into him, accepting the shelter of his arms, which in turn further settles Phil.

~~~

He’s dreaming that he’s cuddling with Clint, his sub wrapped in his arms, both of them warm and sleepy. 

“Coulson,” Clint says.

“Hmmm.”

“Sorry, sir, it's time to get up,” Clint says.

“Hmmmnope,” Phil countermands him, nuzzling Clint’s cheek, his lips just missing Clint’s; this is Phil’s dream, and if he wants to spend it with Barton in his arms then that’s exactly what he’ll do. 

“Ugh. You are not making this easy. Phil. You need to wake up.”

Phil feels his heart flutter at the sound of his name and he blinks his eyes open to see Barton peering at him,“I thought you were a dream.”

“Nope. Flesh and blood.”

Phil grabs Clint’s ass and pulls him close enough that he can slide his dick against Clint’s, feeling them rise together, “So you are.”

“Oh, fuck,” Clint says, “I’m gonna be late, sir.”

“So be late,” Phil says, still in that dreaming/awake state; he loves how beautiful Clint’s mouth is. 

He needs to taste it. 

“Phil,” Clint whispers, leaning into Phil’s body and it feels like heaven and Phil leans in but something holds him back at the last second. He remembers, he wants their first kiss to be when they’re so blind with need they can’t take it anymore; he wants to brand it into their memories so that if they live a thousand years and the past becomes nothing more than vague shadows that one memory will remain crystal clear. 

He stops the kiss just before it happens, blinking himself awake, “You’re right,” Phil says and brushes his thumb across Barton’s lower lip, feeling a sadistic trill of pleasure at Barton’s quiet sound of pain, “You’re going to be late and I have work to do.”

“You’re killing me,” Barton says with a frustrated groan and snaps his teeth at Phil’s thumb as he pulls it away.

Phil sits up them up, pulling Barton into his lap with his back against Phil’s chest and then grabbing Barton’s hips, taking a moment to rub his dick against Barton’s perfect ass; part reward, part punishment for his sass. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Barton says, swearing and begging in the same breath. 

“You’ve got a bomb to defuse,” Phil says. 

“I’ve got something for you to defuse,” Barton replies, grinding his ass against Phil’s dick.

“I’ve got reports to write,” Phil says, pushing Barton to his feet.

Barton pouts, “You suck.”

“Maybe if you’re good,” Phil says, standing up and smacking Barton on the ass, “Now, get to class.”

“You’re the worst, Sir,” Barton says, putting the extra inflection on the honorific and it goes straight to Phil’s head. 

He wants to reward that type of behavior and says, “Go. If you get the best time I’ll take you offsite for lunch.”

“Pizza?” The cafeteria’s pizza is notoriously bad.

“I’ll even let you get pineapple on your half,” he says, a small concession for leaving him so unfulfilled; up until now Phil had been winning the Pineapple War. 

Clint walls away from him with a sway of his hips that leaves Phil trembling with the Need to call him back, to Take everything he’s offered and more, but he crushes it down. 

He’s going to do right by Clint Barton if it’s the last thing he ever does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooo close, I promise.
> 
> Also, Ones That Come Easy is ticking along, I think it has less than 10k to go *fingers crossed*. I finally got past a stumbling block and the rest should come pretty quickly.
> 
> That being said, it won’t actually be the last fic in the series after all; it’s already nearing 50k and has a good break point, so I’ve added another, Pretty White Ships, which will follow it. With any luck that will be the for real really reals ending. *uncrosses and recrosses fingers*


	8. Chapter 8

“This is bullshit!” Barton storms into Phil’s office. 

“I’m working.”

Barton slaps a piece of paper down on Phil’s desk, it’s his schedule for the week and Phil knows exactly what this is about. The only classes Barton hates more than SHIELD Bureaucracy are the purely academic ones. And of the classes assigned this week there’s an obvious choice. 

“Barton.”

“I’m not doing this.”

Phil sighs but keeps typing, “It’s part of the curriculum.”

“It’s a class on how to fill out paperwork.”

“Everyone takes it.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Do it anyway.”

“I don’t need a class to tell me how to fill out a form!”

“I took it.”

Technically, he took the original course and then rewrote it to be both simpler and more comprehensive, but his point stands. 

“It’s at eight in the damn morning.”

“Then you’d better get a good night’s sleep.”

“This is insane!”

Phil stops typing and looks up at Barton, “What’s the real problem.”

“I told you, it’s stupid. It’s a waste of my time and my talents,” Barton sprawls in the office chair on the other side of the desk, a leg propped up over one of the chair’s arms as he leans back against the other. 

“Barton?” Phil prompts, continuing to give Barton his undivided attention. 

He avoids eye contact and starts to fidget, jiggling his foot. 

“Barton. Talk to me,” Phil says using his most compelling tone, the one that almost but not quite dips into his Voice. 

Barton continues to stare at the ceiling, and chews on his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought, “Clint.”

That breaks Barton’s silence, “You know I didn’t make it past second grade? Of course you do,” he snorts, “You know everything.”

“Which is why I also know you’ve taken enough online courses to get degrees from three different universities, if you wanted them,” he still doesn’t understand how Barton can think that’s not impressive. 

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I could take classes at my own pace. No one watching me. Here I’m always on display. Everyone’s just waiting for me to fuck up.”

“That’s not true.”

“What is it then?”

“They’re in awe of you.”

“Pfft. None of them know who I am. Who I was. I’m just a guy. Not even that, a sub.”

Phil’s blood runs cold, and he feels the ice on his breath as he demands, “Who said that?”

“No one. But it’s true,” of course it’s Barton’s inner critic; Phil can’t hold back his frown. He’d thought they had been making progress on this. 

Clint sighs, “Anyway, what makes you think they’re in ‘awe’ of me.”

“Because I recruited you.”

“And? I know you know what they say about you. You’re the biggest badass here and they all think you’re a glorified pencil pusher. I don’t know why you put up with it when you could put any one of them on their knees.”

God, if only Barton knew how much work Phil puts into that image. Phil hides behind the facade specifically _because_ he could Command anyone at SHIELD. All his life he’s seen the jockeying for position the other doms go through and he wants nothing to do with it. 

Phil sighs and asks, “Barton, do you know how many people I’ve personally recommended to Fury?”

“Thousands?”

“One. Every agent we have from the greenest Level 0 up to and including Director Fury knows that I have impossible standards,” it’s often presented as evidence that Phil is, in fact, a robot built by Fury to be the perfect bureaucrat. 

“And what, they were such a paragon of domliness that everyone thinks you’ve struck gold twice?”

Once again Barton completely misses the point; this time ticking both the ‘self criticism’ and ‘dynamic issues’ boxes. Phil pinches the bridge of his nose, “I really wish you would talk to one of the counselors about your dynamic hang ups.”

“I don’t have hang ups,” Barton says, eyeing the vent in the ceiling like it's an escape hatch, “l have reasonable reactions based on years of evidence.”

“You’re right. I’m sure that that’s it,” Phil knows better than to argue with him at this point, “Regardless, I didn’t say one other agent. I said, ‘one’.”

“One?” Phil see it the second it clicks, “Oh.”

“‘Oh’,” Phil repeats. 

“Fine. Whatever. It just means they’re gonna laugh at the both of us when they figure out you made a mistake. And when I suck at this you're the one I’m gonna stick with all my paperwork.”

“Then I’ll just have to incentivize you to do well.”

Barton sits up so fast Phil’s certain he’s going to fall to the floor, but instead of ending up on the ground he twists and bends until he’s leaning across Phil’s desk, his eyes dancing. 

Barton takes his tie and slowly threads it through his fingers, “Well, I have found that I’m very reward motivated,” Barton whispers, his eyes on Phil’s mouth as he tugs on his tie. 

“I’ve noticed,” Phil pulls his tie back into place and Barton holds on to his end, letting Phil gently draw him in. Barton tilts his head slightly and sways closer; Phil leans up until they’re a hairbreadths apart. Barton licks his lips, his tongue brushing across Phil’s lower lip in a dare or a plea. 

Phil waits Barton out, willing him to break, to show Phil he can’t take it anymore; and Phil thinks maybe they aren't there yet and he starts to pull away from the temptation that is Barton’s mouth when Barton lets out a soft whimper, his body taut and begging to be caressed. 

Phil surrenders to his Hunger with a growl, all thoughts teasing, of drawing it out any further, of pushing his sub to feel the sweet pain of denial all for Phil’s pleasure, take a back seat to Phil’s Need. His hands come up to roughly cradle Clint’s face and he devours Clint’s mouth, Claiming what is his. 

Phil moves a hand back to squeeze the base of Clint’s neck and pulls him closer. Clint follows it without question, climbing across Phil’s desk until he’s kneeling on the surface, his body curving down, never breaking the kiss. 

Phil stands, pulling Clint up and drawing his hand from Clint’s face down his back to his ass; he drags Clint to the edge of the desk until his knees are spread wide to bracket Phil’s hips, opening him up, reveling in his submissive’s vulnerability. 

Clint moans deep in his throat and he thrusts up against Phil and Phil feels the warm weight of Clint’s dick pressed against his own. 

Clint gasps, “Bite me.”

Phil doesn’t need to be told twice; he grabs Clint by his hair and drags his head back, exposing his throat, Clint groans and then Phil’s teeth are on him. No warning lick, or soft nibble, but a Claim, Phil marking his sub so that everyone will know Clint is his. 

“Oh!” Clint pants, melting into Phil, his body compliant and pliable as he sinks into subspace, “Thank you, Sir.”

Fuck, that pulls at Phil’s center and he drags Clint impossibly closer as they rub against each other, his hand on Clint’s ass moves to cup the back of his thigh where it meets his ass and then up between his legs until Phil’s thumb is able to press into Clint’s crack, seeking his asshole. 

Clint thrusts back and forth between rubbing against Phil’s dick and pressing back into Phil’s thumb; Phil twists the hand securing Clint’s hair and growls into his ear, “Hold still and let me give you what you need.”

“Oh, God,” Clint swears and after a few false starts he stops moving. 

“Good boy,” Phil praises him. 

Clint reacts to it immediately, his body tensing against the need to move, “Fuuuuck!” 

He trembles and moans, swearing again as Phil finds Clint’s asshole through his clothes and rubs circles around it while continuing to twist his hair and slide his dick against Clint’s. Phil takes his mouth again, pulling Clint’s bottom lip through his teeth and Clint starts to beg, “God, I can’t, Sir! I can’t take it. I can’t.”

“You’ll take what I give you.” Phil snarls, pining his submissive between his dick and his hand, the Hunger roaring at him to Order Clint’s complete submission, to Take what is his; to push his sub to to his knees and fuck his mouth, or turn him over, strip him down and and get his ass slick and ready with his mouth before sliding his dick home.

“Oh. Oh, God. Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck. Fuck! I’ll take what you give me. I’ll be good. I can be good.”

“ _You are good,”_ Fuck, it’s like he’s a teenager again; he didn’t mean to do that, to let that little bit of his Voice off off it’s chain, but he wants Clint so much it’s a struggle to hold back.

Clint cries out as Phil uses his grip on his ass to hold him at just the right angle to slide their dicks together, he recaptures his sub’s mouth, plundering its secrets. Clint is pliant in his arms, opening up for Phil, his moaning low and animalistic.

Phil pulls them into his chair and Clint follows the urging of Phil’s hands to straddle Phil’s legs and grind against his dick. His sub throws his head back and moans out loud with each thrust. Phil can’t resist the exposed throat in front of him and bites and scraps his teeth at the tender flesh, “ _Mine._ ”

Clint brings his hands up to Phil’s shoulders and clings to Phil as he rides; his sub is shaking and begins to cry, completely lost to subspace. 

It’s the tears that bring Phil back from the brink. He’s not sure how far he would have let it go, how much he would have Taken if he hadn’t noticed. The tears bring out his protective streak, “What do you need sweetheart?,” he tempers is Voice carefully, “ _Tell_ me what you need.”

“Ooooh, you Sir, need you; please, Sir, make me yours!”

“ _Mine—_ ,” Wait, no. It’s too soon and not what he wants not like like this; for Clint to be so far Down because of the force of Phil’s Voice. He wants his boy looking at him with clear eyes and a free spirit when they exchange these words. He has to slow them down, to stop this before it gets any more out of hand. 

He grabs Clint’s hips, slowing his rocking motion, “Shhh, shhh, that’s enough baby; you’re so good for me; I want you stay still just like this; can you do that for me?”

Clint places hands on Phil’s shoulders, he isn’t focusing, his pupils are blown wide and his eyes are dewy with tears, “Sir?” He asks as his hips settle. 

“Good. So good; I just want to hold you now. Can you be my good sub and let me hold you?” Clint had seemed like he was starting to come back Up, but at the word ‘sub’ he sinks all the way back Down.

Phil maneuvers them so that Clint is sitting sideways on his lap; the movement being enough of a distraction that coupled with his concern his erection starts to fade. 

Clint is still hard, his dick pushing against his pants and Phil cups it gently, “I can take care of this sweetheart, but I’d rather wait. Can you wait for me, baby?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint slurs, “Anyth’ng.”

“Then just sit and cuddle with me,” Clint sighs and nods, tucking his head to Phil’s shoulder. Phil starts gently rubbing Clint’s back with one hand and stroking his hair with the other, “Good. So good for me, sweetheart. Just come Up when your ready. I’ve got you; I won’t let you go.”

Phil’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let Clint go. 

After a bit, he can feel Clint start to become aware of his surroundings and he whimpers.

“Shhhh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Clint whispers, “Phil?” 

‘ _Mine,’_ the monster promises and Phil has to close his eyes as he fights back the possessive feeling, resisting the urge to tighten his hold on Clint. 

“There you are, sweetheart. Welcome back.”

“What happened?”

“You went all the way Down. Fast and Deep. I think it may have been a little too much all at once. How do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel really good, actually.”

Clint feels good to Phil, too. Not just the weight of him in Phil’s arms, letting Phil hold him, comfort him, protect him; but in the way Clint’s relaxed against him like a cat in its favorite sunbeam, “Good. I’m glad. I still want you to come to the cafeteria with me and get a snack.”

“Snack sounds good.”

“You’ll need to stand,” Phil needs to get some fluids into him, maybe something sweet to help stave off any potential Drop. 

Clint frowns and hides his eyes in the crook of Phil’s neck, Phil has to suppress a shiver as Clint breathes in his skin, “Nope. Standing sucks. I wanna stay here.” 

“No standing, no snacks.”

“That’s a dumb rule.”

“I’ll take it up with management. Now up,” Phil delivers a pair of stinging slaps to Clint’s ass.

“That’s not really the best way to encourage me to get off your lap,” Clint says a little breathlessly

“What if I promised you a spanking to remember?” he can picture it; Clint spread out on his bed. Or the spanking bench, or over his lap. 

He makes the decision then and there, the first time he really spanks his sub, spanks him until he cries and begs, unable to tell if he wants it to stop or he wants more, it will be over Phil’s knee where he can feel every sigh and every moan. 

“Now?” 

He’s tempted, but playing the long game, making Clint wait for it, paid off in a big way. Phil is going to let him stew over it a bit, “No. Tonight. After I take you to dinner.”

“I’m starting to like your idea of incentives, Agent Coulson. Maybe the class won’t be so bad after all. 

“Oh, this wasn't an incentive for the class. Do well and I’ll see about you getting private access to the range whenever you want.”

“Oh my God, collar me.”

“You’re adorable,” Phil laughs and kisses the tip of his nose, “And so easy to please.”

“Oh, so now that I’ve put out I’m easy?”

“I stand corrected. Far be it for me, or anyone, to call Clint Barton ‘easy’.”

Clint indulges Phil a little longer, letting Phil hold him close, hands roaming Clint’s body, ensuring he's safe. Protected. The monster purrs in satisfaction and seems to finally settle all the way back down. 

“You know, that was a hell of a first kiss, Coulson.”

Phil smiles into the top of Clint’s head, “It was pretty mind-blowing for me, too.”

“Should have fucked me the first time I asked, shouldn’t‘ve’ya?”

Phil hugs him and asks with a touch of regret, ''Do you think we could have had then what we have now?”

Clint takes his time, and his voice is a little melancholy when he answers, “No, probably not.”

“Then for the first time in my life I don’t regret not taking you up on that offer.”

Clint leans up to brush his lips against Phil’s and says, “For the first time, neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay cats and kittens, gloves and mittens, if you want a happy ending, stop here.


	9. Chapter 9

Barton’s as beautiful in the field as Phil remembers him being in Odessa. Maybe even more so. 

Phil owes a favor to R & D, asking them to take the general philosophy of the Scalpel and translate it into a bow. Levine doesn’t think it’s possible, but Phil is able to seed a little rivalry between him and Fitz Simmons and in the end, convincing Fury to get the department a new electron microscope was more than worth it. 

Not that he gets to see Barton use it first hand. Not as often as he would like. 

Phil does his best to stay hands off. Everyone knows he and Barton are an item and most of his handlers remember what a nightmare (Hand’s words) Phil had been when he had been with Grant, and that was before he had been promoted to head of Assignments where he has final say in every mission. 

Sure, he wants to listen in on Barton’s mission comms— but he doesn’t. Or rather hasn’t since Barton’s first op with each of Assignments’ handlers during his last month of training, and he would have had to review the tapes anyway, he was just being efficient. He might have Barton’s tracer blinking on his phone, but only while he’s in the field. 

Baby steps.

“You’re not going to do that thing you do, are you?” Garrett says, propping himself up in Phil’s doorway. 

“I’m saving it for karaoke night. Why? Were you looking for a serenade?” Phil asks as he adds his comments to Blake’s AAR, noting that the rumors about this Framework thing should be checked out further.

“You do have the voice of an angel, but no. You know what I’m talking about. Barton’s out with Sitwell right now and you're gonna stay holed up in your office spying on them, aren’t you?”

“I don’t spy.”

Garrett gives him a flat stare.

“Yeah. Okay. I hear it,” Phil says, “But you’re wrong. I trust both of them completely. Sitwell’s my best handler—”

“Present company excluded.”

“Tokyo.”

“Man, you have got to let that go.”

“I spent three days on the phone with the PSIA’s General Director cleaning up your mess.”

“I’m not here to talk about me, I’m here to get you out of your office and out of your head. C’mon, hit the canteen with me. It’s Taco Tuesday. You can’t let Taco Tuesday pass you by.”

Phil tilts his head, “Sitwell or Hill?”

“What?”

“Which one put you up to this?”

“Neither,” Phil raises an eyebrow and Garrett admits, “Ward.”

“Grant?”

“If anyone knows how in your head you get about this sort of thing it’s him.”

“He talks to you about us?” Phil tried not to feel betrayed. Grant is free to make his own choices, and if talking to his handler about his and Phil’s relationship makes him happy— “Wait. Grant doesn’t share his feelings outside of— How long have you been fucking my ex, John?”

“See, this is the sort of thing that would be way easier to talk about over tacos.”

“Fuck your tacos, how long?”

“And how is that any of your business?”

“How is it—Of course it’s… not. Fine. Let’s go get some damned tacos and you can tell me about it. Or not.”

“I can tell you one thing, if I knew how pretty he was when he cries I would have topped that ass much sooner.”

Phil glares, knowing exactly what it takes to make Grant cry and not thrilled to know that Garrett might be taking advantage of his sub— former submissive, “You know if I find out you’ve—”

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll never find my body. C’mon, I don’t want them to run out of guac before we get there.”

~~~

“At this time, bringing in Radcliffe is not on the agenda. All that matters is accessing his lab and downloading the files on the Framework. Quinn has been cagey as hell and intel pegs us at less than twelve hours before he moves Radcliffe again. The world’s trying to end six different ways at the moment and we don’t have anyone local for support. This one is just you and me.”

Phil brings up a wire frame projection of the building schematic, the ‘jet’s main screen isn’t quite as big as the one in his office, but it will do, “Your best access point will be through the ducts on the roof. Based on the HVAC maps we have, the ductwork is byzantine, to say the least. I’ll help direct you to the lab, where you’ll download the files. We’re not going for finesse on this one: get in, get the package, get out. We meet at the Rendezvous and then start making our way to Rome. Questions?”

Barton’s leaned his chair way back has kicked his heels up on the table. He takes a bite of the turkey leg Phil’s father had insisted Barton take with him when they had to leave Phil’s family in the middle of Christmas dinner and looks contemplative. 

“Just one,” he says, “How long do you think we have until Fury wants you back stateside? He did interrupt our vacation and you owe me a week of unlimited orgasms.”

Phil and Barton dig into the details of the op, trying to cover all their bases, by the time they’re through, it’s late enough that they need to try to get some sleep.

Phil’s having trouble keeping his eyes shut. He listens to Barton’s gentle snores from under the hand knitted throw that was a Christmas gift to him from Phil’s parents and normally it would be comforting enough for Phil to fall asleep too but he keeps turning the last conversation he had with his mom over and over in his mind. 

_“We haven’t even said ‘I love you’ yet.”_

_“Of course you have.”_

_“What?”_

_“It’s there every time you look at each other, in every touch. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”_

Phil pulls a ring box out of his pocket and opens it, studying the old fashioned collar buckle in the faint blue emergency lighting. It’s just as beautiful as it was the first time he saw it.

He flips it over but it’s too dark to make out the engraving. He runs his fingers over it, feeling the final line. _PARI PASSU_. Equal in all respects.

Phil’s going to wait until Rome, and New Year’s; he’s going to ask Clint to wear his collar under a sky lit by fireworks. 

It’s going to be perfect. 

~~~

Phil’s about to give Barton his five second warning when Barton speaks up, “Coulson. Something’s wrong.”

“Talk to me, Barton.”

“Shit. The room is being gassed. No idea how long. I’m… I’m…”

“Barton? Barton! _Clint!”_ Phil Orders, praying for a response as he checks his gun and then the street before exiting the van, “ _Talk to me!_ ”

“Coulson... Coulson... Phil. I have to tell you. I have to say it. I have to... Phil, I love—”

“ _Clint? CLINT?!_ ”

It’s the last time Phil hears Clint’s voice for a very long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! What did you do? I told you, happy endings were last chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that this series is complete I’m adding in my fan space information if you want to follow me anywhere.
> 
> Since I’m not sure which fic in the series is drawing everyone in from, I’m going to c/p my info here:
> 
> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore. I would still love it if you followed me, I will follow back, I always love making new fandom friends.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated.
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
> Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia (am I doing this right?)


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